


and i shiver when i see the falling snow

by bravestyles



Series: barefoot in the wildest winter [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Famous Harry, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Famous Louis Tomlinson, Relapsing, overdoses, some minor mentions of suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-19 09:41:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 89,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29872743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravestyles/pseuds/bravestyles
Summary: Five years into his recovery, Harry struggles with his sobriety. Louis' there for him every step of the way.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Series: barefoot in the wildest winter [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2196267
Comments: 32
Kudos: 82





	1. chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> title: if we make it through december - merle haggard
> 
> a random sequel to a work i published like a year ago never hurt anyone x make sure you read the first one before this one :)
> 
> i really really hope you enjoy!

-

Going to the doctor’s has always been a terrible experience for Harry. 

Well, maybe not always. When he was a kid, he didn’t mind it. His mum was always extra nice to him those days and it’d get him out of school, and he always beamed when his mum ruffled his hair and said that he was so much less fussy than Gemma was. He never had any cavities or health problems, so he only received good praise and suckers from his doctors. It was always just a normal part of life, up until he had something to hide. 

Harry started using heroin when he was sixteen. His label didn’t find out about it until he was seventeen, when he showed up to a meeting with Nick high as a kite. He made it fifteen minutes into the meeting before someone looked at him, took off their glasses, threw them on the table and said, “For the love of God, kid, are you high, drunk or both?”

The meeting was originally meant to be about his first big tour, and then it turned into how they were going to hide his drug use from everyone. There was only a brief point where they had encouraged him to stop; for the most part, everyone already accepted that he wouldn’t and didn’t see a point in wasting time with that. Harry wasn’t special, he wasn’t the first celebrity to stumble into a drug problem. And problems needed solutions, and the solution was to keep this quiet, out of reach from anyone who didn’t absolutely need to know, and to pretend like it wasn’t happening. 

At the doctor’s office, he normally did the usual pee-in-a-cup thing. He was nervous as hell about it the first time he did it when he knew it’d show that he had heroin in his system. Called Nick bawling in the bathroom and everything, certain that he was going to lose his career over a urine sample. But Nick told him to calm down and pee in the stupid cup, and he said he’d take care of it. Harry didn’t know what Nick had to do, but when his lab work came back, his system was reported to have no traces of heroin, and Harry didn’t question it. 

It happened that way for a decade, Harry’s people fudging his blood and urine tests to show that he was clean. They can’t leave evidence for that sort of thing, because that’s quite literally leaving a paper-trail behind. So, Harry came to Dr. Elwin’s office every six months, peed in that cup, answered his questions, had a conversation about his health while somehow ignoring the thing that was going to kill him, and then went on his way. For an entire decade, he did that. 

The thing is, though, contrary to what others might think about him, Harry doesn’t like to lie. He really doesn’t. Yes, he understood the importance of lying about his addiction, but that didn’t mean it didn’t make him feel like an awful fraud who didn’t deserve any of the praise he was getting. It made him struggle to talk about his personal life, it constantly had him choking on guilt, and it left him unable to look at any doctor or nurse who asked him about his health, because he just had to lie. 

He hasn’t seen Dr. Elwin in five years, since even going to his office for a routine check-up sent his nerves into a frenzy. He goes to a different private office in London now, one where he feels comfortable talking about his addiction because he understands the importance of being honest about it. An office where they won’t fudge his paperwork, and it’ll still show negative results. An office where they’ll actually help him rather than help him hurt himself. 

The room he’s sitting in is clean, bright, boring. The sheet underneath him crinkles in a way that adds to the anxiety in his stomach, because he’s learned to hate coming to the doctors and that's probably not going to change anytime soon. The nurse left him here about twenty-five minutes ago, and he’s just sat here, clicking between the apps on his phone. Louis’ at home with Bongo, and he’s not awake yet, judging by the unanswered good morning text Harry sent him this morning as he left their home. He somehow managed to get ready and leave without waking Louis, which is something he’s grateful for. Sometimes it’s easier to do these things without him. 

There’s a knock, and Harry quickly puts his phone away and straightens up. The doctor’s called Dr. Alexander, and Harry makes small-talk with her until they get into it. He already had his blood drawn and done his urine sample, and there’s no way the results of those are back yet, and Harry knows his blood pressure was a little low because it always is. Like always, he’s worried that Dr. Alexander will find something else wrong with him. 

She asks about his sleep. He says he sleeps fine most nights. He exercises regularly and eats right, too. 

“Do you smoke?” she asks, and Harry can’t fight the urge to cross his arms over his stomach any longer. He hates coming here. He hates it so much. Ever since rehab all those years ago, simply seeing the title _Dr._ puts a pit in his stomach. 

“Yeah,” he answers. “Weed. A lot.”

“How often?”

He debates on an answer. He smokes every day, but the amount varies. “Like, twice a day maybe,” he settles on. “Sometimes only once, sometimes more.”

They finish the routine questions and she moves onto the harder ones. He knows they’re going to get serious here as soon as she asks, “How’s your mental health? It says here you’ve experienced anxiety and depression.”

He nods, his fingers curling into his stomach. “Ever since I got sober, like. It’s just been sort of a mess upstairs. It’s usually not too bad, but. And, like. I’ve had trouble concentrating sometimes since I got sober, too.”

He was properly diagnosed with anxiety and depression about a year into seeing his therapist Dr. Schnell. Harry’s not very into the whole one-on-one therapy deal, it feels like an attack, so when he was told that. . . Harry finds reasons to stop seeing Dr. Schnell. Stupid ones, obviously. And when Harry was informed that he had developed some mental disorders because of his addiction, he was inclined not to go back for another few months because it irritated him for no reason. It’s not that he doesn’t take his mental health seriously, because he does. Sometimes, though, it’s difficult to acknowledge it in a setting as intimate as that one. 

In the end, he always goes back, so it doesn’t really matter. 

“Are you seeing a therapist?”

“On and off.”

She glances up from her computer. “When’s the last time you were on?”

“Um.” He shrugs, ignoring how he can hear Louis’ nagging to get him in again knocking around in his brain. “A few months. Like, six, I think. I still go to group therapy whenever I need it, though. And I have a sponsor, so.”

“Who’s your sponsor?”

“Reese Owens,” Harry says, and God, Reese is a very nice woman, but she is someone Harry could go his whole life without speaking to ever again if he could. How do you get to really like someone who constantly tells you things you don’t want to hear and who you only talk to when you’re doing poorly? “She’s, um. Nice. Helpful. She’s been my sponsor for almost three years now.”

He switched from his last one after she moved countries. That’s another thing Louis had to fight him on. Harry didn’t want another sponsor, didn’t want to deal with the technicalities of meeting someone new, but Louis borderline forced him into it. Coincidentally, Reese proved to be very helpful the month after he keyed her number into his phone, when he was curled up in the fetal position in a hotel room in Kentucky because he had been hit with a craving so intense that it actually hurt.

“You abused heroin, correct?”

Harry resists the urge to flinch. To cower away from the stupid word. And he doesn’t much like Dr. Alexander’s play at ignorance, either, because he’s been seeing her ever since he dropped Dr. Elwin, and she’s helped him through all of this. She’s sat down with him over and over again as they planned out how to get his body strong and healthy. She knows almost as well as he does what his body is addicted to. 

He knew he had some issues with his veins from what they told him at rehab, but he didn’t know to what extent or what exactly that meant until Dr. Alexander explained it to him. He has a few collapsed veins, veins that just gave up from the years of abuse and refuse to do their jobs anymore. Some healed, some didn’t. It’s somewhat of a bitch to get his blood drawn now, but it’s not that serious of an issue. He’s just glad he didn’t do further damage, because surely, him injecting shit into his veins every day is not something that they appreciated. 

He was expecting that. He understands it, too. What he didn’t expect is for his kidneys to be something that now has to be monitored. Once a year, he has to go in a seeing a stupid kidney specialist who looks at his kidneys and determines if they’re getting worse or not. He’s fine -- really, he is -- it’s just that he might not be so fine in the future, and he’d very much not be fine if he got hooked on heroin again. His doctors assure him that it’s not something he needs to fret over, that they have everything under control and him going in every year is more of a precautionary measure. 

His stomach became a problem, too. Which -- Harry knows drugs are bad for the body, but Christ, his stomach and kidneys have nothing to do with heroin. Except they do, because every dose of heroin that went through his body checked-in with his kidneys and his stomach, and everywhere else for that matter. He has occasional gastrointestinal issues, like infrequent abdominal pain and far more periods of constipation then he would like to admit to. 

And when Harry starts to get upset about what he did to himself, he gets even more upset because he knows everything that he has to deal with now wouldn’t be enough to deter him from using in the past. If someone sat Harry down and said _hey, yeah, your kidneys and your intestines and your veins are getting all rearranged from this shit,_ he would’ve ignored it. Nothing was too big to lose back then, not when heroin was the only thing that really mattered. 

His heart is fine, though. So is his brain -- which is something he’s so incredibly thankful for. You can’t just get a new brain because you decided to fill yours up with heroin for a decade straight. And the scarring on his body from needle marks is something that he’s grown used to, and when he catches Louis subconsciously rubbing over them, he thinks it’s the same as him running his fingers over his tattoos. So Harry doesn’t let himself complain or feel sorry for himself, because he could be dealing with a lot worse health issues right now.

“Yeah,” he answers eventually. “For a little over ten years.”

“And you’ve been sober for five years now?”

Harry nods. He’s proud of that, yes, but he doesn’t feel as proud of that as he maybe should. Maybe when the scales change, the years sober longer than the years drowning in addiction, he’ll feel like that means something like everyone else seems to. “Just over, yeah. Five years, four months.”

“That’s really good to hear, Harry,” Dr. Alexander says with a smile. “Honestly, it is. I know it’s not easy.”

“It’s not,” he agrees, because staying sober is the hardest thing he’s ever done. Still, after five years, every night he’s surprised that he managed to make it through the day clean.

“And do you still have Narcan, just in case?”

_Just in case._ It’s not a _just in case_ , not really. Because a ‘just in case’ sounds a lot like an if, and it’s not. His addiction is based on the idea that he will relapse eventually -- not if, but when. It shouldn’t be that way, and he’d never admit it to anybody, but it’s -- do people years and years into their sobriety carry around Narcan? Probably not. Do people strong in the recovery process have to smoke until they can’t think straight because god _fucking_ damn, does alcohol sound good ninety-nine percent of the time? He doesn’t think so. He doesn’t think he’s doing this right, even if it’s been five years already. 

He said that at a meeting exactly once, how he wouldn’t be surprised if he relapsed again, and it got very quiet. It was one of the only times a group meeting made him feel ashamed of himself, especially when one of the members spoke up and told him that he shouldn’t think that way. He thought everybody thought that about themselves. He still does, sort of. If an addict was so sure they’d never relapse again, would they even call themselves an addict in the first place? He really doesn’t know, and he’s too scared to talk about it with someone. To hear someone else agree with him that he’s not in a good place in his recovery. 

“Yes,” he says belatedly, and this is what he meant when he said he had poor concentration skills nowadays. He can never stay on one page, not when there’s a whole book with a mess of ink waiting to be assessed. “Yeah, in my car and at home.”

He must have some type of look on his face, because she’s giving him this gentle smile that the people at rehab would give him when he was crying in bed and didn’t want to get up. “Just in case,” she repeats, and Harry nods, swallowing thickly. 

“Just in case.”

The rest of the appointment goes over smoothly. Dr. Alexander doesn’t find anything to add to the list of concerns. Before he leaves, she praises him again for his strength, jokingly asks if he wants a lollipop, and he leaves her office to schedule the next appointment with a cotton candy-flavored sucker tucked away in his pocket. 

His mum would be proud.

-

Harry began to slow down his career at the same time it started to slow down naturally. 

He’s still putting out music, still going on tour about every other year, still going to award shows and doing movies and all that -- he’s very much still booked and busy, it’s just that he stopped saying yes to everything. He doesn’t do collaborations with music anymore, he doesn’t put himself in a different country every other week, and he doesn’t, by any means, sign himself up for stressful things that are further than six months away. He can’t guess how he’ll be doing then, so he refuses to lead a potentially struggling version of himself into a busy, pressure-filled calendar. He won’t do it to himself anymore. 

He’s not washed up in the slightest -- he’s still objectively a big name in the music, fashion and acting industry -- but he is now thirty-two and an outed heroin addict. Certain people stopped calling, some doors got shut, some fans picked up and left. There’s no specific reason as to why he feels like his career shrunk a little bit, so maybe it’s all in his head. It could be, honestly. He doesn’t fight the idea that he’s insecure and anxious anymore. It could also boil down to the fact that since Harry has taken control of his life, he stopped being as much of a sought-after celebrity. Is there anything interesting about a celebrity who now has his shit in order? He doesn’t think so. It’s probably the same reason why his addiction is splashed across front pages constantly, and why it is always hinted at, if not directly asked about, during interviews. 

There had been an incident two years ago, a messy, tense situation that had opened up a door between Nick and Harry that they both forced shut. A friend of Harry’s -- _ex-_ friend -- published a book about his life, and for some reason, she had felt the need to include a section about her anonymous celebrity friend who struggled with an addiction that was fed by his manager. It wasn’t as anonymous as she supposedly meant it to be. 

Harry still has the section of the book screenshotted on his phone, from when Nick sent it to him after the dots had been connected and Nick was being blasted by everyone both online and in real life. 

Not a lot of people knew that Nick was his supplier. His enabler. His main connection to heroin. And then everybody knew, and the tables were turned with Nick rushing to Harry, begging him to help him fix this. 

The section about him in the book starts something like this: _Celebrities aren’t viewed as real people. We’re a commodity. Something to be traded, to be looked at, to be shiny. Everyone starts to look at you that way eventually, even your friends and family. Even your agents and managers, whose sole job is to have your best interest at heart._ Especially _your agents and managers._

_This story isn’t mine, but a friend’s._

And Harry had cried when he read someone that he trusted talk about how someone else he trusted looked at him like an object, like something that didn’t really matter. Nick was vital in his recovery process, but he was also a major factor in his addiction, too. And then Harry had to read someone else talk about his life like it was theirs, like they knew Nick better than he did, like Harry had every right to blame Nick and nobody else for all his problems. 

Harry and Nick had never directly talked about that. About how Nick could have led to his death, or at least played a major part in it. There have been a lot of apologies over the years from Nick, yeah, but they never completely _talked_ about it. Because if Harry goes and starts blaming other people, he’ll slip, and he doesn’t want to do that. So, having the whole world take the blame off of him and put it on one of his best friends, for the whole world to read about the time he overdosed in the garden at a party, for the whole world to picture what Louis looked like as he begged Harry to show him any sign of life as Nick threatened everyone around them to keep their mouths shut -- well. It hurt him. A lot. 

First of all, his best friend was under attack, and Harry was too cowardly to defend him. He was too hurt to do that, either, because he knew whatever he said in defense of Nick would have been a lie. He wouldn’t undermine the part Nick played in his addiction, not even to get him out of the heat he was enduring. It was selfish, and maybe it was wrong, but Harry wasn’t in any position to defend himself when a traumatic event of his life was printed out in bulk and bought by anyone who wanted to hold a physical copy of a book that exposed a part of his life that he viciously protected. 

Second of all, Harry wasn’t conscious for that night. He knew that he went out into the garden with some model friends, shot up on a stash that wasn’t his own, and suddenly got very, very sleepy. He woke up in a hospital, they told him what happened, and then he went home. But he didn’t know that Louis cradled his face and begged him to wake up, or that Nick was threatening all of Harry’s friends. He never really thought about how that night lived in other people’s heads as a secret they shared amongst their friends when they started to chat shit. And then he had to read about it like his overdose was drama, and then he had to deal with Nick making this betrayal about himself. 

Harry’s friend, the one who wrote the book, had the audacity to text him once the press began to eat it up. _I’m so sorry,_ she wrote. _I had no way of knowing they could have connected the dots. I would have never intentionally done that to you. Please answer my calls._

And he was sat in bed crying with his cat tucked under his arm. He was in no position to coddle someone else, so he completely ripped her a new one. He called her selfish, cruel, the worst friend he’s ever had. He said that she should have thought twice about pushing a recovering addict this hard, because she would have been the one to blame if he did something stupid, and then he blocked her number. 

It was already a shit show, and then she went on a talk show the next day to help clear her name. 

“And has Harry contacted you about the situation, have the two of you spoken about it?”

“He has made it crystal clear that I am about the world’s worst person and that he’ll never forgive me for this terrible, terrible mistake,” she said, with tears in her eyes that looked nothing like the ones in his own. “I just find it incredibly disheartening that a story that was supposed to be about my struggles with fame turned into something else, and that someone I once called a good friend abandoned a friendship to protect the person who _actually_ betrayed him.”

It added flame to the fire, darkened the smears to Nick’s name, and further dragged Harry’s name through the press. It was a total disaster, and he doesn’t know how it would’ve ended if it wasn’t for Louis holding him through it all.

Nick and Harry tried to avoid the fight that was put in front of them. Neither of them wanted to add to each other’s wounds. But two months after everything died down, Nick and Harry were in the same room longer than they had been in ages, and it sort of just exploded. 

“Louis has never stopped apologizing to me for not forcing me to get help sooner,” Harry shouted at him, jutting a finger at him as he spoke. “He has nothing to apologize for, but he still does it every fucking day, and you just -- you’ve not once apologized for doing this to me. I was _sixteen,_ Nick. I was _sixteen_.”

Nick looked deeply upset. “I have apologized, multiple times, and I am not the one who got you hooked. I wasn’t even at that party.”

“No, but you’re the one I called crying that night because I thought I was going to fucking die. You’re the one that picked me up and drove me back home, who tucked me into bed and told me not to tell anybody about what happened.”

“I wanted you to get _help_ ,” Nick said, pleading, almost. But Harry couldn’t accept that, because it felt like everybody was crying about this when it was _his_ trauma that got blasted across the internet. 

“You thought my career was more important than my health,” Harry spat. “Just fucking admit it, Nick. I deserve at least that much.”

The fight ended with Harry chucking a plate across the room, screaming at a crying Nick that he was fired, and storming out of his house and slamming the door behind him. It was awful, _so_ awful, and they didn’t talk for a month straight after that. The only other time in fifteen years that Harry didn’t talk to Nick for anywhere near that long was when he was in rehab. 

They fixed it, somehow. Harry doesn’t really know how, and Louis thinks that the same thing is bound to happen if they don’t properly talk through it. Because they didn’t; they just started talking to each other again and never brought up that fight. They let it fizzle and die out, when in reality all that will do is let it gain more years and tears and anger. It’s okay, honest. Harry supposes they’ll just wait for the book’s sequel for them to hash it out all over again. 

That little scandal wasn’t the only hard stretch of his sobriety. He wishes he could sit here and say it was, that it only gets hard at times, that he only thinks about it occasionally, but that would be a lie, and Harry spent too much of his life lying. 

Every day is a struggle. Every single day. You get used to it after a while, the constant stream of thoughts, the never-ending thrum of anxiety, the persistent clawing of urges down your back. You have to steel yourself against it before it breaks you. But sometimes, usually at night as he gets ready for bed, he recognizes how tired he is, simply from having to fight all day. To fight his body. To fight his brain. It’s exhausting, and there’s never really a win to it, either, because the next morning, he has to get up and do it all over again. 

There’s not a win, but turning back to heroin would be a definite loss, so he keeps pushing through the days. It’s what he has to do, for himself and for Louis and for those future kids that they keep talking about lately. 

Louis is the love of life. Of every single one of his lives, because it’s felt like he’s lived at least a dozen by now. Getting to be loved like this by someone in this life makes the bad days a little easier to choke down. And being in a position where he can properly love Louis, properly take care of him, properly look him in the eyes and make promises that won’t be broken -- _that’s_ the win to battling this addiction. It has to be, because there has to be some reason that he’s doing this, and when the reason of his own health and happiness isn’t enough, Louis will always be. 

They are settled down in London again, and have been for almost two years now. They were going back and forth between Doncaster and London, depending on Harry’s mental state and if he could take being around the noise. One day Louis sat him down and asked where he would like to raise their kids, and Harry said London, and Louis asked if it would be okay if they started making their home for them, then. In London. And Harry said of course, obviously, because he wanted to make sure their kids would be as happy as could be in London, and because his loyal, adoring husband was asking him for something when he normally doesn’t ask Harry of anything -- and it was something that Harry could give him, so they came back to London and they haven’t moved around more than necessary since. 

Harry has watched Louis feel at home here in a way that he hasn’t seen before, which is. . . not something he likes to think about, because Louis promises him that he wasn’t miserable the entire time that Harry was using. But ever since their lives stopped being Harry-Harry-Harry, Louis’ gone out and done a lot of good for himself. He’s plunged into the world of songwriting, and he’s trying to learn how to play the piano and guitar (and Harry always has to get really stoned before he tries to help him, because Christ, is Louis a bad student), and he’s going out more with friends in a way that Harry didn’t realize he wasn’t before. It hurts, finding out new ways that he held Louis back, but the hurt lessens when he reminds himself that he’s doing his damn best to make sure he never does that to him again. 

As Harry and Louis grow together, he’s found himself growing closer to his family again, too. Sort of. It’s still a little rocky with his mum. He disappointed her for years on end, and she’s not so quick to believe that he just stopped. She calls him once a week with endless love and praise, and she cries with how proud of him she is, just. . . Ever since that one nasty fight they had, Harry can’t help but connect complete and utter fear with her in his head. He remembers how disappointed she was, and how cornered he felt, and how that night led to a terrible fight between him and Louis, too, and it’s difficult for him to separate in his head. 

He’s trying. He tries to not get upset when his mum sounds skeptical or critical, or when Gemma gets mad at him and uses his addiction to add insult to injury. Because as much as Anne and Gemma try their best, they won’t ever get rid of that fear they have for him, never separate his name from heroin. How could they? Louis managed it because he sees Harry every day, sees that his pupils are the right size and his skin is healthy and the weight hasn’t melted off again. Gemma and Anne just have to take his word for it -- something that didn’t mean anything for a decade straight. 

Louis and Harry are in a good place, Harry is working on it and almost there with his family, and he would never have expected to lose Zayn like he has. 

_You haven’t lost me, mate._ That’s what Zayn says every time they talk and Harry can’t help but say that he feels like he has. But a year and a half ago, this girl Zayn was fucking occasionally turned into the woman he got pregnant and then married, and it’s -- of course things changed. Of course Michelle and baby Khadija are more important than Harry. Zayn doesn’t have the time or energy to chase Harry around the world anymore, or to deal with his stupid shit. They’re still friends, still good friends, even, just. Harry misses him. A lot. He misses him every single day. 

Harry’s life, in every single aspect, looks starkly different from how it used to. There’s been some good changes, so of course there has to be some bad. But every day that he wakes up with another day of sobriety under his belt, his husband and cat in bed with him, and the ability to tackle the day ahead of him -- it’s easier to hold on to what he has, rather on what he’s lost. 

Most days, anyway.

-

So, he’s not an alcoholic. 

Nope, not him. He’s strictly a narcotic abuser. Because he can’t be both, he has to pick a struggle, and it doesn’t matter what they told him in rehab that he conveniently never told anybody about. It doesn’t matter what the people tell him in group, either, or what his therapist told him the last time he saw him. He’s not an alcoholic -- sometimes, he just really, really wants to get a little bit wasted, and by sometimes he means often and by a little bit he means blackout drunk. 

It’s an. . . issue (fine, he’ll call it that) that he uses the same coping methods to address that he does with his heroin addiction, but it’s okay, because it’s still different. It’s still different -- honest. Because he’s around alcohol all the goddamn time, and even though he thinks about stealing someone’s wine glass or saying _fuck it_ and going up the bar and ordering himself a drink, he never does. Never. And that makes it different, because if heroin was placed in front of him, he would have very few defenses against the urge. 

It’s an issue that he’s working on privately, and by privately, he means by himself. He doesn’t hide it from Louis, because Louis knows that it’s a _thing,_ but he doesn’t feel so comfortable talking about it as extensively as he does with his heroin problem. And it’s normally not that big of an issue, really. Just, when he’s not doing so hot in his recovery, it’s incredibly difficult to be around alcohol. 

Maybe this is the right time to admit that he’s struggling in his addiction right now. He hasn’t been as strong as he has been lately, and it’s something that he keeps writing off as a phase, but it’s been almost two months since tour ended and he hasn’t left the house very much because he doesn’t have the strength to navigate a world with endless triggers. 

Or maybe it’s not the right time to think about that, because Louis is behind him tugging his shoes on. He’s completely in the dark about how Harry’s hands are sweating as he ties his tie, because they’re going to an engagement party and attached to his invite at the bottom was the fact that there will be alcohol present at the event. When they had agreed to go, Harry was still on tour and felt good, and he doesn’t want to back out because of the fucking _alcohol_. 

He doesn’t want anybody to know that that’s potentially a problem for him. He’s already a fucking heroin addict in everybody’s eyes, and he won’t complicate his image more than it already is. 

Because being an addict is part of his image now, and there’s something about that that society feels the need to villainize and make him feel even worse for, so fine. Fine. He had to reveal that part of himself, but he won’t reveal anything else. He’s good where he is, thanks. 

“Since when are you crap at tying ties?” Louis says, finishing up tying his shoes. He stands and comes over to help Harry, brushing his hands away to take the tie from him. “We have time for you to smoke again, if you need.”

Harry looks over Louis’ shoulder and at his reflection in the mirror. He doesn’t hate what he sees, because this version of himself is a lot healthier and stronger than that person he was before. That person who he sees in old pictures, who is next to all the right people and at all the right events, but somehow still looks like a stranger to him now.

“Yeah. Probably.”

He ignores the urge to apologize, because that just makes Louis turn all serious on him. So, instead, he watches Louis’ fingers work over the black tie, watches how he rubs the pads of his fingers across the silk once he’s finished. He pats his chest with a small smile as he steps out of the way, and once Harry can see his whole body in the mirror again, his real body, the one he likes and likes him back, Louis whispers, “Tada.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, and he’s smiling, too, even though he doesn’t know when that happened. The itch to smoke is strong, almost as equally as powerful as the overwhelming urge to apologize, to just tell Louis that he’s so fucking sorry, because there’s a constant pile of guilt in Harry’s stomach and sometimes it helps if he apologizes randomly throughout the day. He really, really doesn’t want to get Louis worried about him, though, so he settles for leaning down and kissing him. 

It’s so warm, so soft, and then Louis gently pushes him back and says, “I don’t want to be late, love. Go smoke so we can leave, and then we can do this when we come back, ‘kay?”

Sometimes Harry thinks there’s not a single good reason in this world as to why he can’t stay home with Louis and the cat all day, never going out or seeing anybody else. He could be happy like that, he’s pretty sure. Depending on the day, maybe he can remind himself of one or two semi-good reasons, but tonight, he can’t think of one. 

“We don’t have to go,” Louis says quietly, his eyes darting across Harry’s face, reading all the signs that Harry thought he was missing. “If you’re not up for it, Harry, then we can stay home.”

There’s one reason: proving to himself and to Louis that he _can,_ that he hasn’t lost the ability to go out into the world. That’s one reason. 

“No, I’m up for it.” Harry kisses his cheek and takes a few steps back before he turns around to dig into his drawer to grab a sloppily-rolled joint from the night before. “I’m happy for Jeff and Glenne, and I haven’t seen them in a while, so.”

“But we don’t have to,” Louis repeats. “If you want to still see them, we can do, like, a raincheck where we go over to theirs and have an alcohol-free night.”

“I’m not a bloody alcoholic,” Harry snaps, because he really can’t have Louis insinuating as much when it’s getting harder and harder to convince himself of that. He sighs and shuts the drawer. As he lights up, he says, “It’s just -- you know. Being around alcohol reminds me of heroin. It’s not -- it’s not anything more than that.”

Louis looks at him patiently. “I didn’t say it was.”

Harry doesn’t like to lie, and even when he does, he’s not very good at it, so he doesn’t know why he bothers. There’s no way to hide anything from Louis, or to get Louis to overlook certain defensive or fear-driven behaviors, and it’s exhausting for Harry to feel so exposed all the time. He has no idea how Louis has the energy to find all these details constantly. For once, Harry just wants Louis to miss something, to stop being so good at seeing through Harry’s bullshit. 

Harry’s learned that’s part of being loved, though. It’s getting easier to digest. And he could drop it, he really could, but that’s what the Old Him would have done, and he tries to be as unlike him as he possibly can. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry says before he takes a long drag from the joint. He holds the smoke in for as long as possible, and when he blows it out, he waves his hand through the smoke in an attempt to not let it get to Louis. “I didn’t mean to snap. Just feeling, like, edgy. Not an excuse, though. I know that. Thank you for being patient with me.”

Zayn once told him that Harry sounded like he swallowed a self-help book and whenever he spoke, it was a different page that came flying out. It wasn’t a compliment, because he followed it up with a, _You don’t have to be that way around me, you know. I don’t need all those squeaky-clean apologies. They don’t even sound like you._

Louis says, “Yeah, ‘course. There’s no need to apologize, though. You didn’t hurt my feelings or anything.” He grins at him. “That sort of would be hard to do, with you being pantless and all.”

Harry looks down, and right, he got distracted when he was getting his pants out of the closet when he noticed that his tie was wonky. He rolls his eyes at himself and sets the joint in the nearest ashtray. His hands reek of smoke, so when he grabs his pants out of the closet, he’s transferring that smell and he’ll carry it inside with him to a five-star restaurant, but Harry stopped caring about that a long time ago. 

“Which ones should I wear?” Harry asks as he scans through his trousers. Louis snorts behind him. 

“The Gucci ones.”

Harry rolls his eyes again. “I think I actually hate you,” he mumbles, but when Louis comes over and plants a kiss to his shoulder, he finds himself smiling. And when he reaches past him to grab Harry a pair of trousers so Harry won’t be standing here for the next five minutes, staring at all his different pairs of black pants, a flood of appreciation flows through him. 

Harry once heard someone say that an addict is only as strong as their support system. At least, that’s what he thinks they said. He was still shaking from withdrawals at the time, and his head was pounding, and he was on the verge of setting the rehab facility on fire (not seriously, but also very seriously, but also not really, but also a little) -- forgive him if his memory is wrong. When he heard that, though, he felt the most relief he had since he checked himself in there, because if that was true, then he would be fine. He would get out of there okay. 

And he did. Relapsed less than a week later, but still. Harry’s strong because Louis’ strong, and when he’s weak, Louis’ strong enough to hold him up. If tonight is really tough, it’s going to be okay in the end, because Louis will never let him push through it by himself. 

-

That guilt Harry mentioned earlier? Yeah, it gets about a million times worse whenever they’re in the vicinity of weddings, or engagements, or celebrations of either of those things. It’s a glaring reminder that Harry was high when he said I do, he was high for the first dance, he was high when he fucked Louis that night. He was high the entire goddamn night, all of it, and Louis just had to fucking deal with it. 

Part of recovery is making amends with those who you’ve hurt. Harry made a list during rehab of everyone, one that he eventually tore up and threw out because he thought it was stupid. But early on, during a rough patch -- and he keeps saying that, and he’s referring to all sorts of different rough patches, but they all start to blend together after a while -- he wrote down everyone’s name who deserved an apology. Crew members who had to clean up his puke and dirty needles, publicists who had to have their phone on at night while they slept to clean up his messes, friends who he had lost over the years as he lost himself. Nick, Zayn, his mum, his sister, his step-dad, Louis. He wrote Louis’ name down and just stared at it, because he knew one apology wasn’t going to be enough. There was no way. So, he took out another piece of paper and wrote down everything that he was sorry for. 

The list ended up being six pages long, front-and-back, and he asked Louis if he could read it to him. Louis agreed, and they sat in bed, their knees pressed together, and Harry read, and read, and read. 

“I’m sorry for making you prioritize me over your family, over yourself,” he said. “I’m sorry for lying to you so many times. I’m sorry for knowingly and willingly doing things to myself that would have made you a widower. I’m sorry for ruining our wedding. I’m sorry for making our children have to -- ”

Louis stopped him, then, with a frown on his face. He looked angry, almost. As he wiped Harry’s cheeks, he sternly said, “You did not ruin our wedding. Our wedding was perfect.” And Harry protested -- how could it have been, if Harry was high through the whole thing? -- but Louis wouldn’t take no for an answer. 

“I don’t look back at that day and see it as a mistake,” Louis told him. “Or -- or something that could have been better. I look back at that day and think of how nice you looked, and how curly your hair was, and how yummy that cake was, and how you were all over me ‘cause you were so happy to be sharing that day with me. I promise you, Harry. I don’t want you to apologize for that day.”

So, Harry doesn’t verbalize his guilt around events like these, he just crushes it up and lets it absorb into his body -- they’ll see it later, in forms of sadness and regret and anger over other things. During the event in itself, though, Harry keeps his cool, because he probably ruined their own engagement party, and he won’t let that stop Louis from having fun at someone else’s. 

The sad part is, Harry’s not even in that bad of a mood right now. He’s decent this evening. He doesn’t feel overwhelmingly sad or angry, and he’s not struggling with sobriety as much as he could be -- this is just how his brain is all of the time. He doesn’t know if that’s something to be sad over, or if that’s just how humans operate. His brain was constantly wiped clean with heroin before; how could he know what a sober brain is supposed to look like?

At least Jeff and Glenne look happy. Really, that’s all that matters. And Harry will handle tonight gracefully no matter what, because he ruined enough of other people’s events with his addiction and he won’t do the same with his recovery. 

Sometimes Louis tells him that he puts too much pressure on himself. 

Harry and Louis were only ten minutes late, but they somehow are still the last ones there, so everyone is waiting on them. They take off their coats, hand them off, sit down and say hello to everyone, and before Harry can even really get comfortable, the waiter is coming over to them, asking if they’re ready to start off with drinks. 

There are exactly three scenarios that happen during times like these. One: nobody realizes alcohol is a part of his sobriety, too, and it goes over smoothly. Two: they realize it, but they don’t make a big deal out of it, like when Louis and he go out on dates and Louis doesn’t even think twice about ordering non-alcoholic drinks. Three: people know, and they make it a big deal by apologizing or making it awkward or asking him if he’s okay. 

Thankfully, it’s the second option tonight. Jeff side-eyes him, shifting in his seat, and Harry orders himself a virgin Piña Colada. Louis orders next -- an alcoholic drink, because Louis asked him before they came here if it would be alright, and Harry honestly told him yes. When someone else is ordering, Harry gains the courage to look at Jeff and sees that he’s already talking to someone else. 

“It’s a nice restaurant,” Louis says to him as he opens the menu. Instead of looking at his own, Harry slides closer to look at Louis’. 

“Yeah, it is. There’s not too many people here, either.”

“If word gets around that you’re here and there’s a crowd,” Jeff says, “we have security on-call.”

Harry hates how everyone’s eyes fall on him. Harry is always so hyper-focused on the heroin problem that he forgets about the fame thing. He’s not the only celebrity-ish person here, but he’s undeniably the one who will catch the most attention and draw the largest crowd. So, that’s great. 

Jeff doesn’t look bothered, though, so Harry tries not to be either.

“Okay,” he says. “Us, too. It shouldn’t be a problem.

“Might just call those vultures myself to get caught in a picture with that face,” a man that Harry doesn’t recognize says, and everyone laughs, so Harry does, too. He’s too in his head, he’s slowly realizing, because he finds himself looking at what everyone’s else doing to respond appropriately to a situation. It’ll probably get less intense when things are settled down, when he stops feeling like everyone’s looking at him when nobody really gives a fuck. 

That time comes when everyone’s dinner is put in front of them. By now, everyone’s starving and deep in conversation; it’s safe for Harry to relax. Not that it wasn’t safe before, just -- whatever. Louis’ positioned towards him, and they’re crowded close together, because despite all the noise and people around, each other’s voices are the only ones they really want to hear. And yeah, Harry regrets getting a fake-alcoholic drink because it makes him feel closer to the edge of almost euphoria, and yeah, Harry keeps eyeing Louis’ drink, analyzing how long his sips are and how he holds the glass and how he’s paced compared to everyone else, but Louis’ laughing next to him and Harry’s not breaking apart at the seams, and really, that’s all that matters. 

Louis doesn’t order a second drink when the waiter comes back around, which makes Harry sort of insecure, wondering if it’s his fault, wondering if he’s not acting right. And then Louis’ dragging his hand down his thigh subconsciously as he talks about this one flirty Instagram DM he got from a celebrity, and Harry’s focus is back on the right things. 

It’s around one in the morning when everyone’s sloppy-drunk and loud, the noise and the spilled drinks and the slurred words fraying Harry’s nerves. The restaurant is closed to everyone but them now, so it wouldn’t be unheard of, somebody pulling out some pills or molly or whatever else people like to do these days. Jeff and Glenne aren’t really those types of people, but they sure do make friends with that type. Case A: Harry. And Harry’s tired and worn and out of energy, and those all mean very different things, and he can’t help but feel like everyone’s waiting for them to go so they can do their drugs without worrying about being immoral. 

It’s literally not true. Harry knows that they’ll probably just keep drinking. On the off-chance that he’s holding down the mood, though, and because his social-battery is low, he nudges his knee against Louis’ and nods to the door. 

“Yeah, we should probably get going,” Louis says, loud enough for everyone else to hear. “I don’t like to leave Bongo by himself this long, anyway,” he adds, and that’s meant for only Harry. 

They make their rounds of goodbyes, most of which are filled with hugs and kisses and strong whiffs of vodka. When Glenne pulls him in for a hug, she says, “Thanks for coming tonight. We had to have at least one stable couple come to this.”

Harry laughs and rubs a hand down her back. “It’s not a problem. It was nice seeing you guys.”

“You, too.” She pulls back to kiss his cheek, pats his shoulder. “If we have marriage problems, we can call you, yeah?”

Harry snorts. “Call Louis, yeah. He’d be better help than I would.”

She laughs, and then Jeff’s pulling on Harry’s arm to steal him for a hug, and Harry goes willingly. 

Once everyone’s had their goodbyes and their coats are pulled on, Louis grabs his hand and leads him outside. Miraculously, there are no paps, no fans; nothing but the quiet, smokey air of night and a few cars driving by faster than they ought to be. It’s chilly out, something Harry only notices when Louis presses closer to him, his hand slipping under the bottom of Harry’s coat. 

“I can drive,” Louis says once they reach the car. “If you want. I only had the one drink, and that was hours ago.”

But Harry declines, because he’s always liked to drive, and especially at night. It’s peaceful. It gives him a break to think, it feels like, as if the thoughts are clearer when he’s behind the wheel. Even when he’s thinking about unhappy things, like how he hasn’t felt right since tour ended, it doesn’t feel sad, because it’s not; he’s just thinking. 

When they get home, Bongo comes rushing towards the door. His meows are so loud that it’s on the edge of obnoxious, but he quiets down when Harry picks him up and rubs his chin. He’s always so happy to see them, eager for the attention that their presence brings, and Harry has no problem giving it to him. It’s like Bongo sucks the sadness out of him and sheds it back out onto their clothes and blankets and carpets and -- well, everything. 

“You gonna smoke before bed?” Louis asks as he rubs his eyes, heading towards the fridge. Harry wonders how Louis always knows when he wants it, if there’s some sort of sign that he picks up on, or if Harry’s simply predictable. 

“Yeah. A bit.”

“‘Kay, ‘cause I want some.”

Harry kisses Bongo’s head before he sets him down and nods at Louis’ words. It’s not uncommon for Louis to smoke with him, and he’s more likely to do it before bed. Before sex. Harry knows how to read him, too. There’s just something about stoned sex and morning sex that Louis enjoys a ridiculous amount. 

“There’s still some rolled, I think. I’m going to go hop in the shower really fast. Start without me.”

In the shower, Harry rinses away the dim lights of the restaurant, the stench of vodka, the grease of the fries that he stole off of Louis’ plate, the stiffness of that chair. He gets his mind scrubbed clean before bed, because after a joint and a good fuck, the last thing he wants to do is roll over and not be able to fall asleep due to thoughts that won’t stop racing. 

Louis is sprawled out on the bed when he gets out of the shower, laid out on his stomach with his trousers off and his dress shirt hanging off his shoulders. He has the joint in one hand, his phone in the other, and Harry joins him in bed, plopping down beside him. Louis hands over the joint without having to be asked, and as Harry catches up to him, he sets his head on Louis’ shoulders and reads the tweets on his screen. Louis has the level of attention where Twitter can still be fun for him -- now, anyways. Harry knows that hasn’t always been the case. 

“You used my soap,” Louis says after a second, and Harry hums. He closes his eyes as he exhales another cloud of smoke, and he tells himself that he’ll switch to edibles eventually, even though he always says that and hasn’t made the move to. There’s just something about the warmth of smoking that calms him, and when he’s doing it with Louis, there’s a level of intimacy to it, too. 

“You’re awfully sleepy,” Louis points out, reaching for the joint again. “Does that mean I have to do all the work?”

Harry hums again and sets his head down on the pillow. He’s starting to get that floaty feeling, that safe, warm sense of freedom that weeds brings him. Harry doesn’t know how he’d get through any of this if he was one of those people who don’t get on with weed. 

“Yeah,” he responds eventually. “When’s the last time I fucked you, anyway? Feels like ages. Getting lazy, me.” 

Louis scoffs at him, a tiny smile on his face. “Second to last night of the tour. A little offended you don’t remember.” 

But Harry does remember. He remembers Louis laid out underneath him, the sweat of his skin, the slip of the lube, the noise he made when he came. And it makes sense that was the last time Harry topped, because he goes through phases on and off where he just wants to be loved and looked after. He feels that best when Louis’ on top of him, in him, on him everywhere, and Harry’s been in need of a little extra love ever since tour ended, has needed that little extra ache of comfort. 

Louis’ always been up for whatever. 

Harry’s the one to kiss him first, because Louis’ been looking at his phone too long and he wants attention. The joint’s in his hand, and it stays that way through the kissing, through the stripping, through the wandering fingers -- up until Louis finds his spot and Harry drops the joint in bed, cursing out. Louis is quick to pick it up and ash it, and as Harry’s mumbling out lazy apologizes and wiping away the ash on the bed, Louis’ fingers slip back inside him. That, and Louis’ offhand remark about Harry burning down the house, gets Harry to completely melt back into bed, his eyes slipping shut. 

-

“You’re tense as shit, love.”

Louis reaches over to touch his jaw, and Harry unclenches it obediently. He can’t do the same for the rest of him, though, his pinched shoulders and his stiff arms and his strained legs. Every bit of him, every single part, is folding in outside, because for some stupid fucking reason, he’s been hit with a craving so hard that he swears his brain might actually pop with it. 

He came to the bedroom to get dressed, but he sat on the edge of the bed instead and didn't get back up. There are things he could be doing to help, yet every single one of them takes effort, and sitting here does not. 

“Harry,” Louis starts, concerned. Harry shakes his head and pushes Louis’ hand away. He doesn’t need someone else to say it. 

“I’m going to tonight’s meeting, don’t worry about it.”

Louis sits next to him in bed, a comfortable distance away. “It starts in ten minutes.’

“I know.”

“Do you need me to drive you?”

Harry puts his head in his hands and tries to calm down, to relax, but he’s been trying to do that for the last forty-eight hours and he just can’t. It’s a week after that dinner party, that nice night that the two of them had together, and now he can’t think straight because his body is clawing its nails down every square inch of him, begging for something that he would like to give it more than anything. He can’t, though. He can’t. He knows he can’t. His _body_ knows that he can’t, too, it wears the scars the same as he does, so he wishes it could just shut the fuck up.

“I was going to ask Blake or Quinton if they were going.”

“If they are, they’re probably already there.” Louis sets a gentle hand on his knee and squeezes. “Come on, love. I can drive you. If you don’t go, you’ll probably regret it later.”

Harry tries to take deep, calming breaths for all of two seconds before he gives up on that. No matter how many times Reese tries to tell him that it works, it doesn’t. “I don’t feel like getting ready,” he mumbles. “I just -- maybe I’ll do it tomorrow or something.”

Louis stands and grabs his hand, tugging him upwards. “You look fine, promise,” he says, and Harry stares up at him, wishing he could just let him lie in bed another night. “I mean it. Your teeth are brushed, you have on sweats, and you can throw on a hat and shoes no problem. Let’s go. I can go and get us take-out while you’re in.”

“They’re just going to say the same stupid things,” Harry says with a sigh. He stands anyway and heads to the closet to grab a coat, and as he puts in on, Louis drags a beanie on over his head. 

“And you sometimes need to hear those stupid things. Come on, if we leave now, we can make it on time.”

They do. They make it there only two minutes late, which is still considered on time because these meetings never start right away. Everyone’s probably still standing around, coffees in hand, talking about anything except while they’re here. 

“You know,” Harry starts as he unbuckles his seatbelt. “I get, like, moody as shit when I’m struggling, and I get mean, and then I have to go talk to a bunch of fucking people to fix it. That’s unfair, don’t you think? To Reese and to the group counselor and to you. To _me_ , because I always feel guilty as shit for snapping at people.”

“We know you don’t mean it,” Louis promises. He leans over to kiss Harry’s clenched jaw, and it would be reassuring if Harry was going literally anyplace else. He doesn’t mind group -- he really doesn’t -- but he always forgets that until he’s actually inside. Up until he sits down, he is completely convinced that he’s wasting his time and that it’s stupid. 

He mumbles out a goodbye, gets out of the car, and heads inside. 

Sure enough, there’s only two people sitting down. The rest of them are mingling with one another, coffees and donuts and phones in hand. It should scare him more than it does; he’s a celebrity coming to a public meeting. Just because it has ‘anonymous’ in the title doesn’t mean he’s protected. And he doesn’t like talking about this with very many people, either, so he has no idea why he likes coming to group meetings over individual therapy sessions. Maybe. . . Maybe he secretly likes hearing how everyone else is fucked up, too, and how messy these sessions can get. A traditional therapist doesn’t cry to him about his issues, and these people do. 

“It’s been a while, Harry.”

Harry realizes that he’s been standing in the doorway like an idiot as he turns to Quinton, the owner of the voice. He’s a friend, sort of, expect not really. They have nothing in common except for their addiction -- and even then, Quinton’s addicted to meth, not heroin. Blake, on the other hand, is someone Harry considers to be an actual friend. They text occasionally, although not nearly enough. Blake told him that it can be triggering for her to talk to people in the group outside of a meeting, which he understood. It doesn’t look like she’s here, though. _Good for her,_ Harry thinks, and then, _God, what if she’s dead and I just haven’t heard about it yet?_

“I haven’t been home in a while,” Harry says as he shortens the distance between the two of them. “Where’s Blake, do you know if she’s good?”

“She’s in the bathroom,” Quinton says, and Harry nods, relieved. “How was tour, then?”

Harry doesn’t talk about how hard it is to deal with addiction in the public at these meetings. It always makes him feel like a pompous dick, because he’s rich and has all the resources he could possibly need. Nobody needs to hear about his career. Nobody usually asks about it, either, because Harry’s demographic doesn’t exactly match up with the demographic of a narcotics anonymous meeting filled with middle-aged people. There are very few young people here, and they usually don’t stay long. When you’re young, it’s hard to understand the big deal. _Everyone does it_ , they always say. 

“Good, yeah. It was good. How was -- um. How have you been?”

Quinton tells him about how he recently received his four-years sober chip, and he holds it out proudly for Harry to see. Harry didn’t feel like he deserved the chips at first, because he got his first chip in rehab, where he didn’t have to face any temptation. And then he fucked up before he got his sixty-day chip, so he wrote it off in his head as stupid, insignificant, plastic chips that didn’t mean anything to him. They do, though. They really do. Louis bought him his five-year chip online, and it’s right by the door so Harry has to look at it every time he leaves the house and goes out into a world of temptation. 

Unless Bongo jumps on the counter and knocks it down like he always does. But still. 

The group leader announces that they’ll start in one minute when Blake comes out from the bathroom. She’s the youngest regular that they have here -- or was, the last time Harry has been around long enough to keep track of that sort of thing. Even when he was doing good, he’d come here at least once a week. He just hasn’t since tour ended, for some reason, and nobody’s pushed him very hard about it. 

She’s twenty-five, has long, wavy blonde hair, and normally her skin is a darker brown than it is right now, because shit, is she pale. She’s _really_ pale, her skin taking on a gray hue, and Harry frowns at her as she walks over to them. The closer she gets, the darker the smears look under her eyes, the worse the cut on her forehead looks, the puffier her face seems. 

She pulls him in for a hug, and he wraps his arms around her waist tightly, trying to pour all the assurance and strength into her that he has to spare. “Don’t tell me you’re here because you relapsed,” she says, voice strained, and Harry shakes his head. 

“No, I haven’t. I’m clean. Are you?”

“Yeah,” she says, and Harry squeezes her tighter, beyond proud. And then, “Haven’t taken any pills in a whole twelve hours. It’s a new milestone.”

“Shit, Blake,” he mumbles, the relief flooding out of him. The pride stays, though. It stays. She’s here, isn’t she? She’s here, and she’s being honest, and she’s not pushing Harry away. That deserves a pat on the back. He pulls away from her to get a good look at her face. “Are you alright?”

She nods in a way that indicates that she is very much not alright. Her hand leaves Harry’s shoulder to touch the almost-healed cut on her forehead. “I haven’t been sober for, like, three months now. And I was doing a good job at hiding it, up until I got so high that I slipped and hit my head against a counter in front of my sister.”

He tries to think over his words carefully. Anything that could resemble the sentiment of _well, it could be worse_ is dangerous. He doesn’t want to sound preach-y, since he doesn’t even have his own life in check. But he doesn’t want to tell her that it’s okay, because it’s not. So, he settles on, “You have to take those twelve hours and make them last as long as you possibly can, you hear me? I was only a year older than you when I finally went to rehab, and I don’t -- don’t wait forever, okay? You need to take care of yourself.”

“It’s not bad enough to go to rehab.”

Harry gives her a look, and she shakes her head at him, stepping back from his arms. “Didn’t you overdose, like, three times before you finally went in?” she asks hotly. Quinton, who has been texting on his phone behind him, looks up at Harry, who doesn’t react to it at all. After years of dealing with addiction in the spotlight, he’s learned how to not let the hurt show when someone waves around his trauma. 

“Yeah. And I nearly lost my husband. Are you going to let yourself take it that far? Is that the plan?”

She can’t bite back at him, because the leader Mary calls everyone to the circle. Depending on the night, the leader is either Mary or Chris. Mary is gentle, understanding, a good listener. Chris is a hardass and makes jokes, like that time Harry was in the middle of a sentence and Chris laughed and said, “Christ, mate, if I overthought everything as much as you do, I’d turn to heroin, too.” And it was supposed to be funny because Chris was hooked on heroin for most of his life like Harry, but Harry sort of just stared at him, shocked. 

Tonight, as Harry takes his place in the circle between Blake and another regular named Steven, he sort of wishes it was Chris here tonight. Blake sounds like she needs a strong talking to right now. 

There’s nobody new at the meeting tonight, so they skip the introductions and go straight into the point of all this. Steven starts off the meeting by talking about how he’s finally at a good place with his daughter again, and they all clap for him. Laura squirms in her seat with excitement as she tells them that she has managed to keep her job for two whole years, something she hasn’t been able to do for nearly a decade as she battled her addiction to coke. Meetings like this aren’t entirely miserable; people have good updates to share, too. 

Like Harry, who the attention gets pointed to when Mary says that she’s glad to see him again. She asks how he’s doing, and he instinctively tells everyone, “Good, yeah. I’m good. Sober, I mean. A little over five years now.”

They all clap, a form of praise that he’s used to by now. These people clapping for him means more than an entire stadium of fans cheering him on could ever. These people -- _they get it_. And these people deserve the truth, deserve to know that they’re not the only ones struggling to keep a grasp on their sobriety, so after the applause dies down, he takes a breath. 

“It’s been a little harder than normal lately,” he admits, and suddenly, he can’t look anybody in the eye, so he focuses his attention on his wedding ring. For a while, Harry couldn’t look at it without remembering the time Louis took it off and refused to wear it. That has faded by now, thankfully. Now, whenever Harry looks down at his ring, he thinks _Louis_ and _the love of my life_ and _my best friend_ and joy and peace and happiness, a bond like no other. 

“It’s, like. . . like, ever since I got back home from work, I’ve been a little out of it. And the last few days, like. I just wish my body and mind could forget what heroin felt like, you know? It’s been five years, I wish,” he takes a deep breath. “I can remember how good it felt more than I can remember how bad the withdrawal pain was. Like, isn’t that mad?”

Steven nods beside him. “I could describe what it feels like to be high better than I could describe what an orgasm feels like, and I haven’t been high in twenty-some years.”

Quinton snorts. “Bet it’s been longer than that since you’ve had an orgasm, Steve.”

Everyone laughs, and the attention is taken back off of Harry. Another person talks, and another, and then Blake decides to finally speak up. She’s not the only one here who isn’t clean, but she is the only one here who’s been keeping it a secret that she’s been high for every meeting she has come to in the past few weeks. 

“I forgot all the reasons there were to stay sober,” she says, and Harry can’t relate to that. Even when he’s hanging onto a thread, he can remember all the reasons as to why he should stay sober. For him, it depends on if he ignores them or not. “Things have just been so steady lately, you know? I’m not used to steady, so I guess I had to fuck it up. But steady can be boring, you know? It’s like a black hole of nothing that you’re supposed to sit in and feel happy simply because you aren’t high. Well, I can tell you, when I was high, shit was so much more fucked up, but without a doubt, that hole wasn’t so fucking dark and empty. I was full, even if my life was empty.”

Harry listens, as does everyone else, and he sympathizes with her. He really, truly does. It’s not her fault. This isn’t any of their faults. Getting addicted to something they tried for fun, or because they were sad, or because they were trying to fit in -- that wasn’t the plan. Nobody takes something with the intent of getting addicted to it. And that fun or sadness or those friends propel you into a world that you don’t know how to navigate but are forced to for the rest of your life. 

When the meeting comes to an end, Harry doesn’t feel any less tense or worried or suffocated, but he’s not surprised. If that feeling could be solved by one meeting, every NA meeting would be filled to the brim. He has to take what he learned tonight home with him and implement the coping mechanisms he has learned over the years. He just has to keep trying, to keep fighting; there’s no easy way out of this. But he will not stop fighting, he _won’t,_ because Harry can’t handle going through what Blake’s going through right now again. He can’t. If he slips, he won’t get back up easily. So he can’t fucking slip. 

On the way out, he says goodbye to Quinton and Blake. He pulls his hat down further in the fear of being spotted despite the fact that it’s dark out and nobody just hangs around these places. He spots Louis’ car in the parking lot quickly, and he heads towards it without being noticed by Louis, who’s eating a piece of pizza and has his phone propped up on the dashboard. When Harry knocks on the car door, Louis jolts, startled, before he unlocks the door for him. 

“Hey,” Louis greets. “How’d it go?”

Harry shuts the door as he gets settled in the car. He never quite knows what to tell Louis about these meetings; nothing he can say will make that much sense to him. He buckles his seatbelt and stares outside for a moment, at the rest of them getting into their own cars, and he sighs. “My friend relapsed,” he says without looking at Louis. “And, like. I know that’s the sort of stuff you hear about when you come here, but it still makes me sad.” And because it’s what Louis needs to hear, “Made me straighten my head out a bit, too. Like. That look on her face is not one I want to see in the mirror ever again.”

Louis must not know what to say, because all he does is reach out and grab Harry’s hand. It’s enough. It’s more than enough. Because he doesn’t want to see that look on Harry ever again, either. Harry could avoid mirrors for the rest of his life if he had to, while Louis would have to be reminded of Harry’s pain and struggle every time he laid eyes on him. 

“But hey,” Harry says as he squeezes Louis’ fingers, which are greasy from the take-out. “Now I can go eat my feelings and watch shit TV, right? That counts as self-care.”

“It does,” Louis says earnestly. He kisses the back of Harry’s hand and puts the car into drive. 

-

In group therapy, he hears the same sentiment repeated over and over again: _I relapsed because I forgot how much pain I actually was in when I was using._

A concept like that is difficult to navigate. On one hand, Harry could never forget the torture he put his family and friends through. On the other, Harry could easily see himself falling down that path. Hell, he’s pretty sure he already _is._ Because as he said the other day: he remembers the euphoria that heroin gave him, how addicting it was to have the slate wiped clean in his head, far better than he remembers the physical pain he went through to get sober. It makes sense, sort of. His brain has no use for that type of pain, because that’s not the type of pain it’s addicted to. 

Harry doesn’t want to end up like Blake. He doesn’t want to end up at one of those meetings and tell everyone that he relapsed. What would he do with his chip, then? Just throw it out? And how would he face Louis? Most importantly, how could he ever come back from a relapse this far into the game? Harry genuinely doesn’t think he’d be strong enough to go through this entire process again. Being high is _easy._ Being sober is not. Sobriety gets him to do a lot of stupid shit in order to cling to it, and he’s so sick of it, but he can’t let that bruise heal all the way, he can’t. He has to keep jabbing his fingers against the purple flesh as hard as he can, forcing himself to keep that pain open, to never let it fully heal. If he does, he’ll be the next one to end up on the floor with blood dripping down his face. 

It’s how he ends up writing in his journal at four-thirty in the morning two weeks after seeing Blake at that meeting. He hasn’t gone to another one, even though Louis keeps asking him to and he knows he probably should. It’s just. . . Harry doesn’t want them all to see how much he’s actually struggling, because then if he does slip up, everyone would be able to point out that he knew he was doing poorly and still fucked up anyway. That he tried, but not hard enough. It’ll be easier to handle defeat if he can lie to himself and say _it’s not like you tried very hard to stay sober, anyway. If you tried, if you really tried, you could have done it_.

He’s not planning on relapsing. It’s not like that. It’s just -- it’s always a possibility, you know? It’s always a possibility. 

He’s writing a list. A list that he’s written a hundred times by now, no exaggeration. _The Things I Lost Because of Heroin_ is written on one side of the t-chart, and _The Things I Would Have Lost_ is on the other. Under the second category, the first bullet point is always _my life,_ because he finds it terrifying to know that he was knowingly and willingly risking his life several times every single day by sticking that needle inside of him. 

The first time he thought about that, properly thought about it, it sent him into a spiral. He remembers that he was sitting outside with Louis when he first made a connection that he was scared to make. Louis was naked in the pool, his elbows resting on the edge as he tried finding a new playlist on Harry’s phone, while Harry only had his legs in. He was sat there, staring at the moon, at the glistening water, at the beads sliding down Louis’ shoulder, and then suddenly (or not so suddenly, because his brain is constantly thinking even when he’s not fully tuned in to what it’s thinking about; it wasn’t sudden, it was the moment he became conscious to the words chasing each other around in his head) -- suddenly, he got a burning sensation in his stomach and he blurted out, “Was I suicidal?”

And how does he just not _know_ if he was or was not? Isn’t that something someone _knows?_ No, maybe a suicidal person doesn’t walk around thinking, _wow, I would really enjoy death right about now_ , but surely they think things like, _I wouldn’t move out of the way of an oncoming vehicl_ e. He doesn’t think that a suicidal person would be floored to hear someone call them that. But how is he to know for himself, when his brain was melting with the drugs he was pumping into his veins, day after day, hour after hour? He didn’t let himself have a clear thought. 

Louis looked up at him, and he somehow didn’t look shocked. He knew Harry was in his head that night -- that’s why they came outside -- and he must’ve thought it himself before for the idea to not be scary to hear out loud. Louis just calmly set the phone down, set his chin on Harry’s knee, and said, “I don’t know.”

“I think I had to have been,” Harry whispered, feeling horrified. “Who just -- I knew it could kill me, and I did anyways, what if -- what if I _wanted_ that, Louis, what if I -- ”

“Hey,” Louis whispered back. He pressed a kiss to Harry’s knee. “I don’t think you really knew that it could have killed you. Like, I don’t think you _really_ understood that. I think all drug addicts have the whole ‘it won’t happen to me’ mentality, to at least some to degree. And that mindset for you only got worse each time you got back on your feet after pushing the limits too hard.”

“Did you think I wanted to die? Like, did you ever think of me like that?”

“Towards the end there, yeah,” Louis admitted, and he wouldn’t look up at Harry. “When we were -- when I left. And you would leave me those voicemails. You’d talk scary, sometimes. I was scared for you.”

Truth be told, Harry doesn’t remember a lot of the time in which they were separated. He really, truly doesn’t. He made it impossible to. He was using on a near-hourly basis; when Nick refused to do it for him, he’d do it himself. It got to the point that Harry would need to shoot up the second before he got on stage, and there were some nights that he couldn’t make it through the whole two-hour show without feeling like he was shaking out of his skin, the need to get more breaking through the surface. 

Maybe Harry’s addiction didn’t always come with a desire to die, but he’s pretty sure there’s no way that he didn’t want to be permanently gone for at least most of the days that Louis was gone for. And since he couldn’t just say that to Louis, who was now looking up at him with these wide, concerned eyes, he didn’t. He couldn’t. 

“You’re not now, right?” Louis asked quietly. “Like, you’re happy to be here? To be sober?”

Harry nodded. At least he was sure about that. 

“Would you tell me if you ever thought like that?”

“Yes,” Harry promised as he set his hand on Louis’ cheek. “I promise.”

_My sanity_ is the next thing he writes down. This time, it’s under the things that he did lose. Because maybe he wasn’t suicidal, but he is positive that he wasn’t sane. Under that same column, he writes _my relationship with my family_ and _my relationship with the public_ and _my reputation_ and _Louis’ trust_. The second column is usually less full, but ten times scarier to think about. Eventually, he would have lost his career completely, and his relationship with Louis would have been irreconcilable. He would have lost everything. _Everything._ Heroin would’ve eaten its way through him, and then the people he loved, and then everything else. It would’ve, and Harry almost let it. 

He has sixty-three things written down in the first column and one-hundred thirty-seven on the second column (because he started to write down songs he never would’ve released, stadiums he never would have had the chance to perform at, events he would never have been invited to, movies he would have been booked for) when Louis comes into the kitchen, rubbing at his eyes. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, exhaustion weighing on his voice. “It’s so fuckin’ early. Do you know how fuckin’ early it is?”

Harry smiles softly at him and raises the journal, at which Louis nods at with an unreadable expression. Louis has never and will never touch it, but he knows that the journal with the blue cover and the gold-tipped pages is the one Harry writes about his addiction in. Harry doesn’t _only_ write in it when he’s struggling, although he understands why it might make Louis worry. 

“Why are _you_ up, then?” Harry asks as he glances down at his journal and writes _mornings like these_ under the second column. He hears Louis open the cabinet and start the kitchen sink. 

“It gets cold when you’re not in bed,” Louis tells him. “At least turn the heat up if you’re gonna abandon me in the middle of the night.”

Harry smiles gently as he glances back up at Louis, who has a glass of water in his hand and a fist rubbing against his eyes again. It normally takes him at least a half hour to wake up enough to get out of bed, and it looks like he pulled himself out of bed right away this morning to see what Harry was doing. Or maybe he was just thirsty, because he takes another sip out of the glass. 

“Are you coming back to bed soon?” Louis asks with his own soft smile. They're lucky that they still love each other this much, after all this time. Love fizzles out between couples all of the time, yet Harry still feels every bit in love with Louis as he did in the beginning. More, even. (Love in a healthy relationship is so much brighter and warmer and kinder. Harry and Louis have always loved each other, but it took them ages how to figure out how to do it right.)

“Probably in a few minutes.”

“Take your time, obviously. Just. You don’t look like you got much sleep, and I don’t want you getting your sleep schedule all fucked up again.”

“I slept a little bit,” Harry says, and he did. Three hours of fitful sleep is what he’d describe as a little bit of sleep. His mind is a little bit clearer now, and he _is_ tired, so maybe he should take advantage of it and try to sleep. 

He stares down at his list, and it’s not complete yet. It’ll never be complete, not when there are still so many ways that he fucked up his life that he hasn’t discovered yet, not when there are so many milestones that he hasn’t yet reached. He flips back to the last time he wrote this list -- the night before tour -- and he decides that he’s done enough reminiscing and soul-searching for him to sleep now. The mess that he is trying to untangle will be there when he wakes up again, anyway. That’s how this works. 

“Yeah, okay,” Harry says with a sigh. He shuts his journal and pushes himself off the chair. He realizes that Bongo is sound asleep on a stool a few feet away, and Harry scoops him up. He’s warm and sleepy, so he lets Harry carry him in a way that he normally wouldn’t put up with. Louis follows him down the hall, up the stairs, into bed. He pulls Harry into his chest and tucks his cold feet between Harry’s, while Bongo settles by the window in their room. 

_I probably won’t be able to fall asleep,_ he thinks, only a few minutes before he gets pulled under. 

-

So. Apparently, a spontaneous trip to Italy to avoid mental health struggles is not effective. And adding work duties on top of it so you don’t feel overly guilty for being someone who just gets to go to Italy in an attempt to pretend like your reality doesn’t exist -- that’s not effective, either. 

Harry goes to Italy with his skin crawling and his teeth sore from clenching his jaw all the time, and he comes back to London questioning if he broke his sobriety or not. 

Harry and Louis are in Italy for a total of three days. The first day is spent in hotel room, fucking in the bed (and then the shower, and then on the kitchen counter), eating room service, and forgetting to breathe. Because there are very, very few things that can get Harry’s mind calmed down when he’s this wound up, and when he’s ran out of hot water in the shower, too sore to be fucked again, nauseous from the amount he’s smoked and on the verge of puking at the thought of ordering more food, he’s ran out of all the coping mechanisms that he has here. Except for his sponsor, obviously, but he’s holding out on calling her for a reason that he doesn’t even understand himself. 

Cravings are by far the worst part of sobriety. They’re intense, they manifest in both physical and mental forms, and Christ, at times they’re damn near debilitating. It’s hard to explain, and he’s never really had to find the right words to do so: everyone in therapy knows exactly what he’s talking about, and Louis can see it with his own eyes. He’s the one who stays up with him at night and sits with him on the bathroom floor when Harry inevitably winds up there. He’s the one who gets screamed at when Harry just fucking snaps under the mental pressure of it all and deals with the messy, guilty crying afterwards. He’s the one who gets undressed after Harry decides last minute that he can’t take going out for whatever they had planned, the one who called his sponsor for him that one time Harry’s heart started racing because of how anxious he was. 

Usually, they pass. In the moment, it feels like they might never, but they always do. The problem is, Harry’s not just battling against drug cravings usually. His anxiety makes them worse, far worse. And when he smokes himself sick or eats too many sweets or stays in the shower so long that Louis comes and turns it off so Harry doesn’t literally burn his skin, and when he keeps telling himself to stop thinking about it and all it does it just continue his thoughts about it -- it adds to the shit feeling of it all, it makes him feel worse, and then he has even more of a reason to want to get his hands on heroin so it all just _stops_. 

Despite the shit show going on in Harry’s head, they had a decent first day in Italy. They really did. The two of them have worked out a way to acknowledge Harry’s struggles while also not making them the only topic of conversation or letting them be what sets the mood for the day. 

It’s night now, Louis’ in the shower, and Harry’s smoking in bed again even though he’s pretty sure if he smokes anymore, he’ll puke and be too goddamn stoned to make it to the sink or toilet in time. 

He’s laying on his stomach, his elbows holding him up on the edge of the bed, and facing the TV with a joint hanging out of his mouth when Louis comes out of the shower. Immediately, he scoffs. 

“I’m going to confiscate your weed,” he announces, and Harry doesn’t think he’s serious until he comes over, takes the joint from his mouth, and ashes it. He groans quickly and Louis shushes him before sitting in bed next to him, only a pair of sweats slung low on his hips. He rubs his hand up and down Harry’s bare back, because he started to really sweat a little ago and stripped down to his underwear. 

“You’re just going to feel worse the more you smoke right now,” Louis tells him, for probably the fourth time today. “You’re, like, far past the point of it helping anymore. And you can’t keep complaining about feeling sick if you’re just going to keep doing the same thing that made you sick in the first place.”

“But what if I want to?” Harry asks, words slow and sticky. He hangs his head, and it apparently had too much force behind it, because his weight tips and he nearly slides off the bed. Louis steadies him with a laugh before he drags him to the center of the bed. He covers him with a blanket, tucks him in and everything, and he turns the lamp off near Harry’s side. 

“Go to bed, love,” Louis says. And Harry’s high and exhausted, so he obeys. 

The second day in Italy, Harry meets up with some friends from Gucci and goes over near-future business arrangements. Harry sticks with his rule of scheduling things no further than six months ahead, and he texts Nick the details of what he exactly agreed to. In response he gets a few _????_ messages because apparently Nick did not have Harry randomly going to Italy and making deals on his own on his bingo card for the month. Not Harry’s problem. 

The entire morning, he feels decent. A little worn and shaky from the day before, but fine. That feeling stretches on throughout the day, only getting thinned out a little during dinner. He’d classify it as a good day, up until he winds up in the hotel pool room with a glass of Merlot staring back at him. 

After dinner, Louis wanted to call his sisters for a little while and chat. Those conversations always take ages, and Louis was completely fine with Harry going off on his own and exploring the hotel while he was busy. Harry didn’t even mean to end up in the pool room, and he’s pretty sure it was closed, because the worker who saw him wandering around the edges of the pool didn’t sound happy up until he turned around and she saw that it was him. 

“Oh,” she said, cheeks flushed. “Oh. Um. I was just going to ask, did you want anything from the kitchen?”

He stared back at her, thinking. About what kind of _junk food_ he wanted, _not_ what kind of wine. But when the silence was too long for her liking, she started listing off what their specialites were. She got to the wine and Harry’s stomach plummeted, and he found himself nodding nonsensically. 

“The Merlot?” she asked with a grin. “Good choice.”

He felt his body go hot with rejection of the idea at the same time his mouth twisted into the words, “Yeah. Yeah.”

And now there’s an expensive glass of Merlot wine sitting next to him as he lays in a pool chair and stares at it. 

If he was around other people, there’s absolutely no way he’d even consider drinking it. If Louis knew where he was and could come and find him at any moment, Harry would be halfway back to the room after pouring the drink in the trash by now. If he was an alcoholic, which he’s _not_ , he wouldn’t have even allowed the worker to bring him the glass. 

It’s not heroin. It’s not. It’s not -- it’s not heroin, it’s not what Louis left him over, it’s not what he went to rehab for, it’s not what almost killed him time and time again. It’s not. And it’s not even hard liquor, it’s _wine,_ it’s _one_ bloody glass -- a glass won’t kill him, a glass means nothing in terms of his sobriety, because he swore that he’d never do heroin again, not wine, not --

He grabs the glass so roughly that it spills down his hand and onto his arm, and can’t let it stain his shirt, so he quickly drags his tongue down his skin, stopping the bead of purple-red from painting evidence onto his clothes, and once he has that burst of sweetness exploding across his tongue -- well. He wasn’t going to stop himself, but even if he tried, he wouldn’t be able to at this point. 

(Because that’s what he has to do right now: convince himself that he couldn’t stop, and that he didn’t try hard enough, because later when he’s inevitably pissed at himself, he can say _well, at least it was just wine, and it’s not like I had a choice._ )

It’s like his brain skips, or something, because one second he’s bringing the glass to his lips with shaky hands and the next, he’s hunched over the side of the chair with more spilled wine running around his fingers and onto the ground, and his stomach hurts a bit and the glass is empty and he’s running his tongue over his teeth almost frantically, searching for more of that painfully sweet taste. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. He whips around, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed, but there’s nobody else but him in here. It’s only him and the surveillance cameras, which -- he can’t think about that right now. Right now, he needs to get this wine off his hands and find his way back to the room, because he shouldn’t have left in the first place. 

He stands, and Christ, there’s no way he’s already feeling the effects of that glass, so the panic must be what makes him feel woozy. Whatever it is has him crouching down to the edge of the pool as carefully as he can, and he’s quick about rinsing the red stains off his hands. It comes off easily, thankfully, and as he sits back on the tile, waving his hands dry, he can’t bring himself to turn around and look behind him, at that now-empty glass. 

His mind is moving a million miles an hour, but he tries to hold onto a few different facts. One: it wasn’t heroin. It wasn’t, and that means something. Two: it’s okay that he couldn’t say no, because there are very few instances in his life where someone will offer him heroin as openly as that. He’s fine, this doesn’t mean anything. Three: Louis doesn’t know, so it doesn’t count. 

Fucking hell, he’s never sounded more like an addict than he does now. 

He thinks about his kidneys, and then his stomach, and then he’s hunched over his phone and Googling the most random things, because he can’t exactly type in ‘I’m a heroin addict but I drank wine and now I’m worried that I’ve kicked my organs harder than they can take’. First he types in _‘do you have to be sober from everything to be considered sober from drugs_ ’, which just brings up results that he doesn’t want. He doesn’t need the Internet to find that answer, anyway. For him, the answer is yes. Maybe not everyone, but for him, it’s a solid fucking yes. And the people who sat down with him and helped him create a personal recovery plan -- they’d say yes, too. Even though he knows that that’s true, he refuses to say that he’s lost his five years of sobriety, because he won’t let that go down the drain because of a fucking glass of wine. 

The second thing he types in is _‘how quickly can you get drunk from wine’_ because, for some reason, he already feels warm and hazy. Before, one glass of wine wouldn’t have been enough to even touch him. Things could be different now, though. _Are_ different. He’s sure it’s not that different from how everyone in his life, every single fucking person who cared about him, made sure to let him know that if he relapses with heroin, he can’t assume his body can take the same amount that it used to. Tolerance, and all that. 

And then when he can’t find anything useful, he types in _‘NA naples italy’_ and a bunch of fucking links pop up. He immediately exits out of the app, because fuck. _Fuck._ He can’t handle that all, can’t handle the thought of sorting through links and finding good meetings, and then finding their hours, and it’s --

He takes a deep breath, goes to his messages, and scrolls until he finds Reese’s name. This is her job. Sort of. It’s not like she’s getting paid to help him. But he is one-thousand fucking percent sure that she’d rather him go to her with a question that he could find out for himself instead of just not going to a meeting, so. He clicks on her name. 

The last time he talked to her, it was three-thirty in the morning and he was in Amsterdam on tour. There had been a bit of an issue backstage, because Harry’s team had helped him implement a no-drinking or drug-use rule backstage unless it was in rooms that he didn’t have access to. It made him feel like a child, at first, and a diva, but then he realized that there was absolutely no reason why people can’t handle a rule like that for one goddamn night. And he’s even more grateful for it now, because now he knows that he can’t even say no to wine. (Which isn’t true, he’s done it a million times before, this time was just -- different. It was different.)

Someone’s girlfriend’s dad or something, Harry can’t remember, got a little pissy because he was told to go out to the public bar if he wanted a drink. It wasn’t even a problem, honestly, but Harry was up that night thinking about how there’s bound to be people who are addicted to alcohol and drugs and don’t even realize it. Maybe that dad wasn’t, Harry had no way of knowing, just. . . he was thinking about it, about how much harder it is for “functioning” addicts to come to terms with their problems. And he texted Reese about it, asking if she thought he was a functioning addict before or not, and she had texted him back in the morning saying that it was a complicated subject that she’d rather talk to him on the phone about when he had a chance. He never did make time for that phone call. 

Whatever. Not important. He’s just trying to stall this conversation. 

_Hey. In naples, italy and was looking for some trustworthy meetings? Know of any for some reason?_

Her response comes faster than he was expecting. It’s only ten minutes later, and he’s swirling his hands around in the pool water and slowly coming to terms with the fact that he’s at least a little tipsy. She writes, _I don’t, but I can look around. Need to chat?_

And, well. He probably wouldn’t have gone to a meeting anyway, but he’s certainly not going to one where she can’t promise him complete confidentiality. The place he goes to in London was recommended to him by his last sponsor, and she swore up and down that he wouldn’t have to worry about his personal issues getting leaked to the press. He went to this one place in Doncaster exactly once, and he didn’t share because he was so worried that whatever he said was going to be plastered on the front of every newspaper the next morning. And he hasn’t gone anywhere else, hasn’t left his safe bubble, so he doesn’t even know why he bothered asking now. 

_No I’m fine_ , he writes back. _Probably just going to go to bed. Thanks._

He gets up off the floor, and once the blood rush leaves his head, he leaves the pool room, abandoning the empty glass of wine. He runs his tongue over his teeth over and over and over again just like he’s been doing since he finished the glass, and the taste is started to fade, and he hates it so fucking much. Hates it even more knowing that he has to go in and immediately brush his teeth, brush away that sweet taste from his mouth, the same taste that his mouth is already watering for again. 

God, he’s an idiot. He really is an idiot. 

Louis’ still on the computer with his sisters, so Harry silently closes the door behind him and motions to the bathroom. Louis nods to him with a grin, and then he goes back to whatever the conversation is. He has no idea that Harry just drank, and he won’t ever, because now Harry’s safely behind the locked bathroom door and reaching for his tooth brush. 

It was one glass of wine. He’s not a bloody alcoholic. And he’s on vacation, for God’s sake. He can have a glass of wine if he fucking wants to. 

-

The third and final day in Italy starts with Harry waking before Louis and staring up at the ceiling, telling himself over and over again that he’s not a bad person for not telling Louis. You don’t have to tell your partner _everything_. Which is true, to an extent, and this situation does not fall within that extent. He should tell Louis, and he knows he won’t, so that’s why he keeps trying to tell himself to let it go, to force himself to stay put in Louis’ arms because he deserves love, no matter how many times he screws up. 

It takes exactly seventeen minutes of him being awake to start crying. What sets him off is a text from his mum waiting for him on his phone. _Hiya baby, hope you’re well xxx love you to bits & always proud._ It’s like she _knows_ or something, like she could _feel_ the agony that her son was in last night. He sits up in bed to reply, slipping out of Louis’ arms as he does. 

The guilt Harry feels towards his mum is something he can’t handle this morning, so he pushes it down and gets out of bed. 

There’s only barely half a joint left, and Harry curses quietly as he puts it back. He’ll need it on the car ride, probably. He won’t fucking die if he doesn’t smoke right now, he can handle it. Except maybe he can’t, because as he searches through the cabinets to find something to eat, his brain won’t shut up. _How much did you bring with you to Italy? No, it couldn’t have been that much. You couldn’t have smoked through that all. Louis had some, though -- but barely. Fuck, that wine tasted good. And Louis doesn’t know, he doesn’t even know, you could just go down to breakfast and order some more, nobody would question it._

Life is exhausting when he’s not in a great mental headspace. The first day here, he was so wound up and antsy, smoking more than he cares to admit to. The second day, he was fine, up until he was frantically rubbing the wine off his fingers with pool water. And today, he’s so fucking sad, so fucking low. And the cupboards are empty and so is the fridge, but there’s hot cocoa on the counter so he fixes himself a cup even though he doesn’t really want any. 

He sits on the chair by the window and pulls the curtain open only slightly, mindful of Louis still sleeping. A big city like this doesn’t need him here. Neither does London. It’s why he liked being in Doncaster; everything looked as small as he did, and nothing was overly decorated or lit or more than it needed to be. It just _was,_ and there’s nothing more that Harry wants than to just _be._

There’s no denying that getting hooked back onto heroin would make him feel as big as those cities want him to be. He used to look out these windows and feel taller than those buildings, feel just as indestructible. He felt like shit a lot of the time, too, but only for that in between period of the high falling down and the next one ready to pull him back up. 

Not for the first time, he debates how hard it would be to get his hands on heroin without anybody knowing. Maybe if he had some time alone, maybe only a few weeks, he could work himself back up to a point where he could act normal while completely out of his mind high. And he swears every part of his body tightens in anticipation of a release that he can’t give it, so he wipes away his tears and takes a sip of his hot cocoa, hoping that can be a good enough substitute for the time being. Until he no longer needs to grasp onto stupid things like this to get through the day; he doesn’t always struggle like this. All this chaos can come to a quiet. He’s just powerless when it gets loud. 

He’s on his third cup of cocoa and his stomach is in cramps (but the sweetness is helping, somehow, fucking junk food always gets to him now) when he sniffles and it’s acknowledged with a quiet, sleepy, “Are you crying?”

Harry stills. He didn’t want to do this right now, which is why he was trying to be quiet. The talking, the honesty, the part where he puts his misery out in the open because he’s still trying to make up for all those years where Louis got lied to every single day -- he doesn’t have it in him at the moment. 

But he doesn’t get to pick and choose when people care about him. 

“Harry. Are you okay?”

There’s some movement, like Louis sat up in bed or pulled the blankets off of him. Harry’s facing away from him, which is now the only ounce of privacy he has in this time of vulnerability. Sometimes being in a relationship is exhausting. It’s not like he has an issue with why he should be honest with Louis, it’s the fact that sometimes he genuinely can’t keep things from him. He can’t have anything for himself, it feels like; he just gives it all to Louis -- all the dark, twisted, concerning thoughts go from Harry’s head to Louis’, and he hates it so goddamn much. Which is another reason why he’s not going to bring up last night and the goddamn wine, because Louis is in Italy and he’s been having a nice time and Harry can’t ruin anything else for him. Crying this early in the morning is one thing. Admitting to a slip-up is another. 

“Hey,” Louis says, and he sounds so soft and worried and like he’s ready to come over here and pull Harry into his arms and never let him go. “Hey, sweetheart, just tell me what’s wrong.” And those are definitely the noises of Louis getting out of bed, and Harry takes a deep breath, ready to tell him that he’s okay, so he doesn’t know how he ends up choking on a sob that seems to bounce between every wall in this too-big hotel room. 

“Okay, okay,” Louis is saying, and Harry has his eyes clenched shut so he doesn’t know Louis’ right there until a firm hand is on the back of his neck and the mug is being pulled gently from his hands. He tries to curl in on himself, feeling far too vulnerable right now, but Louis doesn’t let him, not until he’s made a spot for himself next to Harry. The chair is too small and Harry’s hot from the cocoa, and still, he has no power against how he twists to fit himself into Louis’ side, trying to find safety there. 

The cry he has is embarrassingly long. It goes on forever, and every time he thinks he’s collected himself enough to stop, something tips him off again -- Louis’ fingers petting his hip or a thought about the wine from last night or a whisper of, _let it out, love, come on_. Because Harry sulks a lot, and he gets teary-eyed a ton, but the instances in which he completely breaks down like this are few and far between. And somehow, Louis is there for him every single goddamn time, no matter how messy it is. 

Sometimes it felt like their relationship was easier when his heroin use was the only thing they argued over. That was the one fucking issue between them, the only fucking one, and Harry could always place the blame on the drug. Now he’s five years clean and he’s still fucking doing this to them. 

It takes Harry nearly forty-five minutes to calm down, and he’s left swollen and sticky and too tired to be embarrassed about it. Louis’ fingers don’t stop rubbing circles against the bottom of his spine, which is good, because Harry doesn’t stop breathing heavily against his stomach. 

There is a ten-minute grace period between the end of the harsh cries and the first attempt at a conversation. 

“Your drink might be warm enough,” Louis says in a near-whisper. He stretches down to grab it, and then, “Oh, Christ, is that thing chocolate-y.” 

Harry doesn’t open his eyes or stop kneading his fingers into Louis’ thigh the way he does when he’s nervous, but he does offer a quiet, croaky response. “Put, like, two and a half of the packages in. Thought it tasted fine.”

A small pause, and then, “How did you even manage to stir that much in?”

Louis is always ridiculously good at taking care of Harry during these moments. Like, Harry loves Louis to pieces, but he still gets panicked and achingly sad whenever Louis is upset. He doesn’t remember to say _let it out,_ he always says _hey, hey, it’s okay, everything’s fine, no need to cry, love_. He means well, he always fucking means well, it’s just hard to see someone you love upset. He doesn’t know how Louis handles it so gracefully. How he has the patience to not make Harry talk about things right away or the ability to hold him in a way that doesn’t feel suffocating. Sure, maybe Louis didn’t always use to handle Harry’s whirlwind of issues in the best way, but he’s figured out how to by now, and Harry never fails to understand how special that is. 

“I don’t know, honestly,” Harry replies. Louis’ hand moves up his back to rest on the side of his neck, and Harry tucks his knees closer into Louis’ leg. His back hurts from being hunched over Louis’ body like this, but it’s okay. 

“Can we move to the bed, are you okay here?”

Harry lets out a sound that he’s pretty sure is supposed to be a laugh. “Might actually puke if I stand,” he mumbles, because drinking that much hot cocoa first thing in the morning and then crying for nearly an hour straight has his stomach in knots, and he really has to piss by now, which isn’t helping his stomach ache either. 

“Okay, that’s fine. ‘M gonna open the window at least. Get some sunshine in here.”

Louis pulls open the curtains completely, and Harry expects to be blinded by the light. With his head down, though, he’s protected from the rays. 

For however long, Louis sits there with Harry, scratching his fingers through Harry’s hair with the sun pooling around them. It’s good, _so_ good. Almost good enough to fall asleep, and Harry gladly would let sleep take him if he didn’t have to pee so goddamn bad. He sighs quietly before pulling himself off Louis’ lap and into a sitting position, and he feels dumb all of the sudden, which quietly goes away when Louis is right there to reassure him. He wipes his cheeks for him and kisses his nose, and Harry pulls away from it strictly due to the fact that it pulls a smile out of him and he doesn’t feel like smiling right now. 

When Harry gets out of the bathroom, Louis is sitting in bed with his laptop open and a water bottle by Harry’s bedside. He pats the bed wordlessly, and Harry gets in beside him, tucking himself right back into Louis’ side. There has to be some psychology behind it, Harry’s deep-rooted desire to be as small as possible and looked after when he’s feeling like this. Or maybe it’s just what all humans do when vulnerability is eating them alive. 

They watch some stupid comedy on Louis’ laptop for an hour straight, up until Harry falls asleep with his head on Louis’ hip. When he wakes up, he feels slightly better and doesn’t immediately cry, so. Small victories. 

“We don’t have to go home today, you know,” Louis tells him about an hour after Harry wakes up the second time. They’re still curled up together under the sheets, this time naked and sweaty because somehow an innocent kiss turned into something more. Harry felt a bit awful being intimate with Louis when he still hasn’t told him the truth, but it was just a glass of wine and it doesn’t matter, it _can’t_ matter, not everything has to _matter_ all of the goddamn time. 

“I want to,” Harry whispers. And then, “If that’s alright with you.”

“Of course it’s alright,” Louis whispers back. The kiss he presses into Harry’s shoulder, then his back, then his neck makes Harry shiver. “Everything’s alright, love,” Louis adds, almost as an afterthought. Again, Harry shivers. 

-

Three weeks later, Harry’s in Nick’s garden, helping him pull weeds from the dirt while they talk about Harry’s upcoming events. And it’s not that Harry forgot about the stuff that he agreed to, it’s just that he didn’t realize that he was due on Kimmel’s show in a month, and that the one party he agreed to go to ages ago is only a week after it. He knew the Gucci fashion show was in two months, though. They went over that again during the meeting in Italy. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to cancel something?” Nick asks for the third time as he pulls on a particularly tough weed. Harry doesn’t even know how he got roped into doing Nick’s housekeeping, but whatever. He doesn’t mind it since it’s helping take his mind off things. 

“No. It’s fine. It’s not a lot.”

“It is your off-season, though,” Nick reminds. “You’re not expected to be anywhere right now. Well, aside from the Gucci thing. But we can cancel Kimmel, if you want. It’s not a big deal. And that party -- I don’t remember why we agreed that you would go.”

“It’s fine, Nick.”

“Are you sure? Because you look like I’m signing you up for the slaughter-house, and we’ve been good at keeping you on a schedule that’s good for your career while also good for you.”

“It’s _fine_ ,” Harry stresses, and he scoops up a handful of dirt and lobs it at Nick to punctuate his point. Nick doesn’t pick a fight back, which makes Harry sigh. So, they’re going to do this thing that they do all the time now where Harry has to reassure Nick that he’s not setting him up to fail and that it’s okay for Nick to let go of the guilt. Harry wipes the worst of the dirt off on his trousers before giving Nick a look. 

“If I didn’t want to do something, I’d tell you. I’ve been doing talk shows for fifteen years now, right? And I can do another one. And that party -- I’ll probably go for an hour, tops, and then leave. And I actually want to go to the fashion show, so. Like. Just don’t sweat it, mate, okay?”

Harry would have never guessed that he would have to learn how to ease other people’s guilt as part of his recovery. Technically, he doesn’t _have_ to, but. He’d rather not leave his husband and his best friend alone in handling everything. Harry has this rule, right, one that absolutely did not go over well with Nick the one time he joked about it: whoever has seen him nearly dead at least once gets an unlimited free-pass to unload their guilt onto Harry whenever they please. It’s the least he could do, honestly. His therapist told him that he has to set boundaries with people, that he can’t just expect himself to absorb people’s guilt all of the time, especially when he’s not expecting it. It doesn’t seem fair when Harry has done a lot worse to those who love him; he can handle some hard conversations every now and then. 

This is so routine by now that Harry can almost perfectly say the words in his head as Nick says them out loud. “I just don’t want to push you past your limits, not again.” Harry’s ready to say a bunch of shit that he doesn’t even necessarily agree with himself, and before he can, Nick continues. “I talked to Louis not too long ago, and he said you’ve been rocky ever since tour ended, and I can only promise you a sober-set on Kimmel, so if you can’t -- ”

“Don’t talk about my addiction behind my back,” he snaps, and Nick makes this awfully sad noise that makes this stupidly sad face. He sets his hand on Harry’s shoulder and squeezes. 

“You usually aren’t so defensive about this anymore,” Nick whispers. “If you don’t think you can do it, Harry, I really wish you would just tell me. I don’t want -- ”

“Don’t tell me what I can’t handle, okay,” Harry says, as nicely as he can manage. He doesn’t want to raise any red flags, not when there doesn’t need to be any. “I promise you, I can handle those three events. What I can’t handle is you blurring the lines between business and friendship. We’re talking about business right now, okay, and it does not make you a bad manager or friend to, I don’t know, _manage_ me?” He sighs and finally looks Nick in the eye. Fortunately, he looks a bit less tense. “Tell me how to manage my addiction and you’ll see me defensive. Okay? Fair?”

Nick nods, his fingers digging into Harry’s shoulder further. “Yeah. Fair. Can we talk about friendship stuff now, then?”

Harry returns to the dirt as he nods. He barely gets his fingers around a weed when Nick says, “Can we please talk about how you’re struggling? Like. You’ve been off tour for months now, and this is the first I’m hearing of it.”

Because Harry has never been the type to admit that he needs help, not when he denied it for so long. Because Harry doesn’t like having these conversations with Nick. Because Louis is helping him manage, and that’s all he needs (outside of therapy and self-reflection and his sponsor, obviously). Because Harry is starting to feel defeated when day after day is spent battling an addiction; it’s talked about at the time, thought about even more. Maybe Harry didn’t realize before that when they told him this would be a life-long battle, they really, truly meant it. It does get easier, it can, but it can also go back to being terrible and awful. Harry has gotten through the hard and back to the easy before, it’s just. . . difficult. 

He pulls on a weed harder than necessary and tosses it in the direction of the waste bag. His fingers are stained with dirt, the smudges circling around his fingers and down his hands like the wine in Italy. That incident has been kept between Harry and Harry only, and maybe now’s the time to change that. 

After wiping his hands off on his pants again, he takes a deep breath and stares out into Nick’s backyard, and then up at the sky. Thoughts surrounding Italy have been chasing each other around for weeks, and now they’re all interconnected and tangled. He’s not sure how or where to start, or why he should even start anywhere. Addiction is about _the_ most personal thing for somebody to struggle with, and Harry hates how it’s something that he can’t grapple with on his own. 

“What do you think it means when I say I’m clean? Or, like. Sober.”

Nick doesn’t answer right away, and when he does, it’s with a lame, “What?”

“It’s a question,” Harry says. “Just answer the question.”

“You being sober means you’re off heroin,” Nick says, and he sounds so bloody confused. Harry thought the question was pretty straightforward. “It means you haven’t used, which -- you haven’t, right?”

Harry nods. “I haven’t used heroin, no.”

It settles something in Harry’s mind, then: Harry having that glass of wine was not a knock to his sobriety. It can’t be. If anything, it was a slip-up and nothing more. It just happened, and it’s not going to happen again, so he can stop being so afraid of it. It’s okay, he can breathe, he can relax.

Nick, his friend with no professional background, answering a purposefully misleading question should not be enough to plug that doubt, and it is anyway. If he was smart, if he wasn’t so afraid to find an actual answer, he’d call Reese and ask her directly and she would talk him through the situation and what it means for him. But Harry’s content with Nick’s answer, so he doesn’t feel the need to continue the conversation anymore. 

-

“I can’t believe I actually used to picture us raising our kids here. California fucking sucks.”

Louis’ shoving his sunglasses back up his nose and pulling the collar of his shirt away from his neck. He’s been grouchy since they landed, because Louis’ not a plane person, nor is he a hot-weather person anymore. They stopped at home after the flight to drop off their things and Bongo, and the house was unbearably hot. Harry cracked open a few windows while Louis cranked up the air conditioning, and they tried to wait for it to cool down for all of five minutes. It was Louis’ decision to go out to eat, and Harry picked the restaurant. It’s not too busy, fortunately, although the heat has found its way inside, and Louis hasn’t stopped complaining about it since they sat down. Harry’s uncomfortable, too, and he’s run his hand through his sweaty hair about a hundred times by now, conscious of how it probably looks wet. 

“My vote has always been for London,” Harry says as he picks up a menu off the table. It’s sticky with heat, and the plastic pages cling to each other. Louis sighs loudly as he grabs his own menu, and when he looks down, his sunglasses slide down his sweaty nose. Harry bites back a smile when he watches Louis’ face pinch with annoyance. 

They get their waters fairly quickly, and Louis immediately puts the cool glass against his forehead. It must feel good, because he lets out a long, satisfied sigh. 

“We’re only here for eight days,” Harry reminds, and Louis scowls at him. 

“Only takes a minute to die from a heat stroke, thanks.”

Harry rolls his eyes fondly. He has a feeling that Louis won’t stop complaining about the heat for this whole week, and he’s completely okay with that. It’ll probably help keep Harry distracted, little things like that. He’s on Kimmel tomorrow night, and then he has to go to that party the night before they’re due back in London. The party might get nixed from his list, because he made the promise that he’d go to some music executive months ago and could easily get away with saying he forgot about it. It’s some dumb launch party for a new record company, and the people in charge roping different celebrities into coming won’t make it any less fun. Do you know what happens when you take a group of random, rich, bored people and throw them into a club with an open bar, live music, and sets built for Instagram pictures? Nothing good. Nothing Harry should be around for. And yet he agreed to go, for some reason. 

-

Harry’s so sure that the party is going to be the stressful bit of this trip, so he doesn’t mentally prepare enough for the Kimmel interview, doesn’t apply all the necessary armor to be ready for an interview like this, and he pays the price for it. 

It’s nighttime TV, he’s a celebrity, and he’s recently hit a milestone in his addiction. Those all should have been strong suggestions for Harry to prepare for a few more questions than normal about his addiction. And it’s not like he walks into it blindly -- Nick sent him the bulleted list of topics that he’d be expected to talk about -- but he didn’t realize the bullet point that read _“congratulations on 5 years sober”_ would turn into a whole six-minute segment about the entire process, start to finish. 

It’s a relatively quick story, one that he tries to get through without tripping up or looking at the audience, but he loses his footing after Kimmel asks how rehab works for a famous person, how he’s always wondered about that. And Harry said probably four or five times that he didn’t want to speak for anyone, that his experience was personal to him, and it was just -- a lot. Too much. Rehab was a traumatic experience for him (nobody could be ripped away from their family, from their life, be told to sit and shit and eat at specific times, and come off of a decade-long addiction and not be bloody traumatized by the end of it) and he has never found a way to gracefully slide over that bit. From then on, for two agonizing minutes, Harry is a little flustered and tongue-tied, until they cut to commercial and come back to talk about some stupid story about how Lizzo and Harry ended up as co-stars in a movie together. 

The interview wasn’t bad. He’s been doing this for fifteen bloody years and given his fair share of shit interviews, and he can confidently say that it was fine. Yeah, he tripped over his words more than normal, but not enough for anybody to think a certain way about him. It’s fine. It’s fucking fine. 

But it’s not and his chest hurts slightly, because talking about his addiction to an audience is never easy, especially when he’s not in a great spot in his recovery. Sobriety is fucking hard, _it’s fucking hard_ , and he doesn’t ever want to make himself look like he has it all figured out when there are people watching and hanging onto his every word. Harry doesn’t want to give bad advice, or make anything sound easier than it is, and above everything else, he wants to stop loading the gun for shitty journalists who probably cream their pants every time he talks about his recovery. The headlines won’t show up tomorrow, because this show isn’t actually live, but when they do -- God, Harry hopes he can handle it. 

Objectively, Harry knows that his addiction is not the only reason why people are interested in him. He has to tell himself that so, _so_ many times, though. He’s popular because he’s a kind, talented person, and he has fans because they see that, not because they pity him or like that he’s -- damaged or something. He got casted for movies because he can act, his albums do well because he’s fucking good at music, he gets interviews because he’s charming -- the inevitable one or two questions about his goddamn addiction does not make him less of a person, it does not take away from his talent. It can’t. 

Harry genuinely thought he was going to ruin his career when he went into rehab, and he didn’t, and he is goddamn appreciative of that. People weren’t nice by any stretch of the word, but he’s still here. He still made it this far. 

Right now, ‘here’ is the balcony of a fancy restaurant, a joint resting between his lips. Inside, Louis and Kimmel’s crew are laughing and talking and they’re not even drinking, nobody is, so Harry doesn’t know why he was getting so anxious in there. The room felt too dark and his clothes felt too tight and Louis looked like he was having a good time -- Harry didn’t want to ruin it for him, so he excused himself and went outside. 

He has the urge to smoke so much that it fucking obliterates his brain, enough for him to get that warm, syrupy type of high where nothing feels quite real and he can’t exactly see straight. If he smoked that much so quickly, it’d probably make him feel sick, but. That’s how he felt for ten consecutive years; sick and exhausted and frail, but also brilliant and fucking geared up and indestructible. Towards the end, the “good” parts of a high started to fade just like everything around him. Constantly, he felt sick and shaky and sweaty. But when withdrawal started to nag him far too soon, he got even sicker, even shakier, even sweatier. 

Weed isn’t supposed to be like that. It’s supposed to relax him and take off the edge, and he shouldn’t smoke his heady empty to try and replicate the feelings of heroin, because he knows that is what he’s subconsciously doing and that’s also just fucking impossible. Weed can get you fucked up, sure, but heroin -- well. It’s a wee bit more complicated than that, isn’t it.

He takes one more drag of the joint before stubbing it out against the ground. As the immediate regret flails about and then fizzles out, he sets his elbows on the railing and takes a few steadying breaths. He’s only been gone for about twenty minutes. Going back now won’t require an explanation; any later, everyone’s going to think that he’s weird. 

When he gets back to the table, someone makes a joke about how Harry reeks of weed, and he laughs while heat colors his cheeks. Before he has to come up with a logical response to that, Louis tells him that he ordered him another plate of fries because everyone else ate his. 

The conversation picks up where it most likely left off with ease, and Harry manages to slip his way into it and actually enjoy himself as well. Everyone seems happy to see him involved again, and nobody questions why he needed to take a twenty minute break from dinner. 

They stay for another hour, and Harry manages to stay on top of the conversation and the people and the jokes the entire time. (It’s always confused him, the way that he’s a people-person at heart, yet that part of him is one of the first things to shrivel up and hide when he’s feeling anxious. But maybe it’s not confusing, not when you take into account the fact that he doesn’t like being a burden, not when he was one for so many years.) He smoked just enough for his head to remain above water, and by the time Louis is yawning and shooting him that all too familiar _get me out of here please_ look, he’s ready to go himself. 

On the way home, Harry drives and Louis tries not to fall asleep in the passenger seat. Harry could appreciate a nice, quiet drive, but Louis keeps talking to avoid falling asleep, and, well. Harry’s just waiting for the conversation to turn in the direction it always does. That happens about fifteen minutes into the drive. 

“Tonight was alright, right?” Louis asks him, his fingers coming to run over Harry’s elbow. Harry moves his arm into the touch, but his eyes stay focused on the road. Driving in Los Angeles makes him nervous. “Like. You were alright?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Just. I’m sort of waiting for the topic to die out, for the public to stop caring so much. I’m starting to think it never will.” And he realizes as he talks that he really doesn’t have the energy to discuss this right now, so he tries to come up with a new topic. When he comes up short, he sighs quietly. “Too tired to talk about this tonight, though, if that’s fine.”

“Sure,” Louis says immediately, and his fingers press further into Harry’s arm as they slip up to his shoulder. “But before we stop talking about it, just wanted to say that you did good, and I’m proud of you, and I’m only a bit jealous that you managed to make everyone at that dinner fall in love with you.”

Harry risks a glance at Louis, couldn’t stop it even if he tried. He’s just so good, is the thing. So good and kind and understanding, and Harry will never stop noticing it. He couldn’t. “I don’t care if they love me,” he says as he looks back to the road. “Just want you. Always.” And even to his own ears, it sounds far more insecure than he meant it to, which is confusing and irritating and he tries to fix it by finding Louis’ hand. He kisses his knuckles and sets their clasped hands against his thigh, focuses on the way Louis rubs his skin softly. 

“Same,” Louis says. “Always, yeah.”

At home, neither Harry or Louis even try to stay awake. They both get ready for bed as soon as they get in and slip into bed with Bongo in between them. Louis tiredly taps on his phone while Harry doesn’t even have the energy to do that; he just closes his eyes and tucks his face against Louis’ shoulder, his fingers against Bongo’s foot. He’s out in seconds. 

-

Three days later, he ends up calling Reese in the middle of the afternoon because this bout of struggle has been dragging on far too long, and it’s starting to take a toll on Louis. They’re in LA, and they’re supposed to be having fun, probably, but LA gets Harry’s head fucked up and he doesn’t feel comfortable going out. He’s thirty-two, five years into this, and doesn’t _trust_ himself enough to _leave the house_. He’s gotten better about this, about believing in himself and not seeing everything as a landmine of triggers. It’s different now, though. LA on its own kicks his mind into overdrive, and that mixed with the wine incident in Italy -- he’s terrified, honestly. 

So, he sits in the sunroom with Bongo beside him on the couch and dials Reese’s number, because he should probably get back into the habit of calling her randomly anyway. She’s here for a reason. 

For a total of seven minutes of the conversation, he feels good. He’s doing something good for himself, taking care of himself, and that deserves some self-praise. Except as the time goes on, as Reese keeps talking, defeat creeps into the back of his head. She keeps saying all the right things, it’s just that Harry’s heard them all before. He already knows that this is a part of recovery, that it’ll get better, that he’s faced harder things before. 

A part of him fears that nothing is going to help, that coming clean to her wasn’t worth it, so he decides to completely wipe his hands off in an attempt to lessen the guilt in his veins. He tells her about Italy, about the stupid glass of wine, and they walk through the how’s and the why’s and what he can do for next time to avoid something like this again, and it’s. . . nothing. That’s what it feels like: nothing. He feels powerless and tired and alone and guilty, _so_ guilty, and nothing she’s saying is making a dent in any of that. 

You know platitudes? How a good thing can be said so many times that it loses its meaning? It’s like that, sort of, because he swears these words used to mean a lot more to him than they do now. 

“I feel like I’ve heard you say all of this before,” Harry admits in a scared whisper, because he -- it’s not like he expected her to fix things, okay, but he did think he could walk away from this conversation knowing how to make it better, and he doesn’t think he knows how to do that just yet. “Like. Like -- I don’t, Reese, I feel like -- I _know_ what you’re saying. I know that sobriety is important, and that I worked really hard to get here, and that I can’t just throw it away for nothing -- and I _won’t_ , I’m pretty sure, I won’t, it’s just. . . I don’t know how to enjoy myself in the meantime. Like, surely I can’t just sit on my hands and wait for this bad stuff to blow over.”

“You could be depressed,” she says, and Harry rolls his eyes instinctively and he doesn’t even know why. “I’m not a therapist, Harry, but I know you’ve been diagnosed by one. Maybe you could go see someone, just to talk things through?”

“I hate one-on-one therapy. It doesn’t work for me.”

“Because you don’t let it work,” she says with a small laugh. “Us addicts have years and years of practice in lying and omitting facts. A therapist can’t help you if he’s only playing with half the deck.”

“I don’t _lie_ to him,” Harry snaps, defensive, because he’s been called a liar by so many people in his life and he doesn’t want to keep adding to that list. “I just -- I just feel judged, okay? Like he doesn’t really understand. That’s why I like group, that’s why I like talking to you. All of you are addicts, too, and you -- ”

“We make you feel safe in fucking up, because we’ve all fucked up before and will fuck up again,” she finishes for him, and that’s not what he was going to fucking say. “I get it, Harry, I do. But I think you could benefit from having a therapist in your circle of trust, too. They’re human, you know, they fuck up, too.”

“You’re not helping,” Harry says, only a little pathetically. He rubs his hand over his face and takes a deep breath, trying to find the right way in expressing himself. “It’s just, I’ve felt shitty before. I’ve felt like I was struggling, like, so much over the last five years. But it’s never felt this long or this, like, out of nowhere.”

And she tells him that it’s not out of nowhere, that something must be causing this disconnect and he can’t effectively solve it until he lets himself figure it out. She says that he better get used to struggle now, because he’s looking at another sixty years of it at least. She also says that he can’t expect himself to thrive mentally if he’s sitting at home all day, which is fair. That piece of advice actually helps a little bit. 

After about an hour of conversation, he says, “I have a party to go to in a few days. Like, a proper Hollywood party. There will be drugs there, there will most likely be heroin. Do you think it’s an awful idea?”

“I think it’s risky,” Reese says. “I think that it’s a decision you need to make for yourself while keeping in mind the consequences you might face. That environment, Harry, those party scenes -- that’s where your addiction was bred. If it sounds hard to go to, it’ll be a million times worse to physically be there, I promise.”

“I don’t think I’ll relapse,” Harry whispers, and he pulls at his bottom lip with his thumb, worried by how correct she is. He’s determined to go, though. He is. For some reason, whether it be because that’s what he came here to do or because he made a promise to someone or just to prove to himself that he can, he wants to go. 

“I need you to _know_ you won’t relapse.”

“I won’t,” he says weakly. And then stronger: “I won’t relapse, Reese. Not with alcohol, not with heroin, nothing. I promise you, and I promise myself. I won’t be stupid.”

-

Harry goes to the party that Friday because he genuinely thinks he can handle it, that it won’t be a knock on his sobriety at all. He’s not lying to himself or forcing himself to go for some dumb reason; he goes because he thinks he can have fun. 

It turns out to be a bad decision. 

He doesn’t relapse, but he does make poor choices that’ll come back to bite him. 

The thing is, the night starts off really, really good. Louis is excited to get out and Harry always feels his best when he’s dressed nicely, and they’re both looking forward to seeing the usual people who come to these types of things that they haven’t seen in a while. Plus, there’s bound to be an endless supply of food that’ll drown Harry’s sweet tooth. 

They call for a driver, mostly because Harry hates driving in front of paparazzi (it always feels so weird, for some reason, and all those flashes and noise aren’t easy to ignore) and there’s bound to be a crowd that’ll draw the need for a quick exit. And the moments in the backseat of a driver named Corey’s car make Harry feel young and dumb and important in a way that he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. When he was supposed to be busy being young, he was confusing it with being reckless and out of control, something that he regrets endlessly. 

In the backseat, they’re touchy and speak in hushed whispers like they’re sharing secrets. Louis keeps laughing even though Harry isn’t saying anything funny, and Harry keeps dropping kisses to Louis’ jaw because he feels decent for the first time in ages, and there’s a tug of arousal in his stomach that feels stronger than it has in a long time. He is _not_ feeling young and dumb enough to fuck in the back of the car, but he enjoys the thought of it anyway. 

When they arrive at the venue and there are paps crawling the streets, Louis sighs quietly and grabs Harry’s hand. This is the shitty part, isn’t it. Dragging Louis through a swarm of vultures. But Harry and Louis both have learned to deal with this, that it just comes with the territory. As long as they aren’t papped while they’re out on their own, when they just want to grab a bite to eat or be normal people, Harry tries not to complain. 

As they walk through the bright lights and the shouts, they keep their heads down, smiles plastered, and hands linked. They get in relatively quickly, and when the door shuts behind them, most of the noise is blocked out. It’s jarring, going from chaos to quiet so quickly. Harry’s never gotten used to that over the years. Before he can stand there blinking like an idiot any longer, someone asks for their coats, and Harry slips his off and hands it to the worker, Louis doing the same. 

Harry looks around, and there’s another tug in his belly. It’s not a good one this time. It’s an _oh shit_ , a panicked flail of fear, because everywhere he looks, from the bar to the swell of people to those lining the other wall, there’s alcohol everywhere. In people’s hands, glasses abandoned on the tables, on silver platters, _literally_. And it’s not _just_ the alcohol, okay, it’s the implication behind it. 

These people are here for a good night. For a lot of people, especially in Los Angeles, California, drugs are included in that. 

It’s not like he’s fucking shocked, alright. He was expecting it, and he prepared himself for it. Expecting it and seeing it are two different things, though, they always are. Because it’s not just seeing it, it’s smelling it and hearing it and feeling the stickiness of it on the ground. It’s everything _but_ tasting it, everything but following the glasses around the crowds until they lead him to someone with more than alcohol in their veins. 

He was good at that before. Finding the people who had it. It’s like he had a fucking sixth sense or something. If Nick wasn’t around and neither were the usual dealers, Harry would slink around events with his eyes peeled, eager, like it was a game. It’s usually older men who have it, because the young girls don’t tend to fuck around with that type of shit. It’s usually not just floating around like coke or pills do, either. Depending on the scene, there’s almost always a room in the back where the hard shit is at, and Christ, yes, Harry needs to stop thinking about this. That exact game is what got him tripping on other people’s stashes and falling unconscious in someone’s bloody garden. 

“Ah, you’ve been spotted,” Louis says, and before Harry can ask by who, someone comes strolling up with a grin. His name is David, Harry’s pretty sure. He doesn’t really know. All music people are named, like, David or Dan or Dave or something equally as forgettable. It must come with the job description or something. Which is maybe not so nice to think, because David is a kind bloke who seems thrilled to see him again. 

“Harry,” he greets excitedly. And then after he briefly hugs Harry, “Louis, mate, good to see you,” and Harry immediately takes more interest in him because there are too many people who just ignore Louis like he’s a pointless extension of Harry or something. 

They talk by the entrance for ages, until David convinces them to come and sit at their table. It’s Harry’s safest bet, sitting with a bunch of old, reputable people who only drink Scotch because that also must be in the job description. Louis is like Harry in the way he can enjoy anybody’s company, so Harry doesn’t feel guilty for tugging him along to the table. 

No, that guilt doesn’t come until ten minutes later. A man named Jerry is deep in conversation with Louis when a waiter comes around to replace empty drinks. She notices that Harry and Louis don’t have anything in front of them, and when she asks Harry what he would like to order, he’s far too aware of the fact that nobody is explicitly paying attention to him and won’t care what he orders. 

Ten seconds is all he has to indulge the idea, because then Louis’ turning towards him, giving him a weird look, and saying, “Can we just have two regular Cokes, please?”

His first mistake was thinking that he could sneak in an alcoholic drink, or maybe it was more that he shouldn’t have been thinking at all. The second mistake was thinking that Louis wasn’t paying attention to him, because he always is. Always. And now he has a hand pressed firmly to his thigh and a confused look being thrown his way every few seconds as Louis undoubtedly tries to work out if Harry’s brain just blanked out and couldn’t think of a drink or if the hesitance meant something more. 

Harry tries to soothe the panic, to remind himself that he’s a fucking addict who has a fucked up brain and he can’t beat himself up for every stupid thought he has. Sobriety is about healing, not punishment. So, he squeezes Louis’ fingers that are pressed into his thigh and turns to David and asks if his kids are in high school yet. 

His head is all of sorts now, though. He can’t focus properly and he has way too many things going on in his head all the sudden. Not even just heroin-related things, just -- picturing if Louis is going to turn this into a fight or a heart-to-heart and which is worse and what would have happened if Harry just ordered himself a drink and since when are David’s kids in university and did that person just take a picture of him and is that Louis’ hand getting sweaty or his own?

David talks for ages, having no idea that Harry’s somehow spiraling over something so small, so stupid, and it gives Harry a chance to try and find his footing again. He felt strong coming in, and he wants to feel strong leaving. 

After about a half hour of conversation with David about kids and the industry and his music, the chaos in Harry’s head slowly comes to an end, allowing him a second to breathe. It’s grip is lessening, the atmosphere is going back to its normal level of suffocation, Harry has a chance. He has a chance. 

It’s when Harry’s talking to the waiter again about another Coke and a side of fries when that chance completely disappears, because shit, that man by the bar laughing with someone -- Harry has definitely bought heroin off of him before. That’s the fucking problem, isn’t it; after ten years, you make friends, you make connections, and now that connection is ripping through Harry’s chest as his stomach drops to his feet and the floor completely fucking disappears under him. 

Aaron. His name is Aaron. It was at a party not much different than this, not much farther away from here. Harry remembers how Aaron helped him forget. 

“I think that’s all he wants,” someone says, and Harry snaps back to the present, back to the waiter who is staring at him like she’s afraid she’s annoyed him, back to David who is laughing at Harry’s flushed face. 

“No, yeah,” he says quickly, nodding. “No, yeah -- that’s, that’s all. Thanks. Thank you.” She nods and leaves, and Harry doesn’t have the energy to try and explain away his behavior to David. He just turns away from Aaron as much as he possibly can -- out of sight, out of mind -- and tries to focus on a different conversation around him. 

He can’t, though. He can’t focus, and he can’t tell Louis because he doesn’t have the fucking balls to stand up for himself, and he can’t -- he just can’t. There’s not a single thing that he can do right now that isn’t obsessing over all the ways Harry can get Aaron alone. It doesn’t even have to be alone, it just has to be away from Louis, or maybe -- maybe it doesn’t, maybe Harry can just lie and say he was a friend if he sees them talking, maybe --

_It’s not always like this,_ he tries to tell himself. _It’s not always like this, you’re just going through a bit of a tough time, this’ll just make you stronger in the long-run._ Except it doesn’t matter if it’s not always like this because it is right now, and no, actually. No. Harry doesn’t think he could handle seeing a dealer he’s worked with before well, doing good or not. The only difference is that if he was doing okay right now, if he didn’t have his head up his ass, he would immediately tell Louis that he needed to get the fuck out of here and Louis wouldn’t ask any questions. 

Harry can’t keep his eyes off of Aaron, and the sixth or seventh time he looks over, he sees him moving towards the bathroom. All Harry can think is _oh no_. Oh, shit, fuck, _no_. 

“Are you alright?” Louis whispers to him, and the universe is making this too easy for Harry, giving him too many outs with the way things are lining up. Because now Harry can turn to him and say, “Yeah, I just have to piss. Which one is the bathroom? I can’t tell.”

Louis points to the doorway on the left, and Harry stands. 

It’s not a conscious decision, okay. It’s -- it might seem like it is, because _he’s_ walking there and _he’s_ making the choice and _he’s_ being the idiot, but it’s -- it’s deeper than that, okay. It’s bigger than that. It’s bigger than _him_. Because yes, Harry is the one walking to the bathroom, and he is the one who will be held accountable for this, but nobody should be written off as a fuck-up for a decision they’re making that has their hands shaking and the room spinning and their chest tightening so much that it feels like it could pop. This is his fault, but it’s not his fault at the same time. 

The bathroom is not too packed, maybe only ten or so people, and he spots Aaron right away. He’s talking to someone by the sinks, and Harry stands off to the side, leans against the wall, makes himself as small as possible. He doesn’t do anything until the friend leaves and Aaron goes to grab some paper towel. 

Fortunately, all Harry has to do is walk up to him for Aaron to be the first one to speak. “Hey, mate,” he says with a grin. He goes to shake his hand before he laughs and dries his hands off. Harry might muster a small smile, he doesn’t even know. 

“Hi.”

“Hey.” Aaron laughs again. “Were you waiting for me or something?”

Harry just nods, biting on his lip and teetering on his feet. 

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting Aaron to say, or how he thinks this will go, but he absolutely does not consider the possibility of Aaron saying, “Didn’t you, like, quit, man? Like. I read the papers, you know, and -- ”

“And the press always blows things out of proportion,” Harry says easily, suddenly knowing all the right things to say. “Word got up to my record label and they wanted me to get clean for them, not for me. Not because I needed to. It wasn’t, like, a problem.”

Aaron gives him a look. “And all those interviews you gave? The ones where you said you nearly died and lost your relationship because of heroin? Those just for your label, too?”

“Dude,” Harry says in a voice that’s not his own, with a laugh that’s not his. “Do you know how much money I’ve made off of this whole thing? I don’t pretend to know about your business, so don’t pretend to know about mine. We all have to make money, yeah? And lucky for you, your business is looking at a kind, wealthy customer right now.”

Aaron doesn’t look convinced in the beginning, but then he’s laughing and hitting Harry’s shoulder and calling him a greedy son of a bitch. And Harry is fucking exhilarated, fucking pumped, he would do fucking anything for a hit right now, literally _anything_ , and so he nearly fucking collapses when Aaron says, “I’m not dealing tonight, though.”

Harry goes from very, very happy to very, very pissed. “What?”

“Nah, man. Jerry, the guy who undoubtedly guilted you into coming here -- that’s my uncle. How the hell else do you think a guy like me gets invited to these sorts of things? And I promised him I wouldn’t deal anything hard tonight, just weed.”

“You don’t have anything?” Harry makes no attempt in faking nice, because what the fuck, he made all this fucking effort for nothing, for a fucking earful about who is related to who and who made what promise. Harry doesn’t fucking give a fuck. 

“Just weed.”

Harry sucks on his teeth for a second and says, “Do you know anybody that does?”

Aaron shakes his head. 

“Come on,” Harry says, borderline snapping. “It’s a party and we’re in Los Angeles. There are dealers here.”

Aaron doesn’t look angry, thankfully. Harry doesn’t care now, but he will later when he’s mulling over this and hating every second. “This is my territory, buddy,” he says with a snort. “No respectable dealer is coming over here and dealing clean shit. Anybody here dealing doesn’t know the rules and is looking to make a quick buck off of the young ones here, the ones who don’t know what real shit looks like, so no. I don’t know anyone dealing H tonight, and if you do, I highly recommend you stay away from them. Unless your label is in the need of another headline, that is.”

And that makes sense. That makes a lot of sense, enough of it for it to penetrate Harry’s thick yet empty skull right now. It doesn’t quiet the panic, though, there’s still the steady of _want want want want want_ , and it doesn’t gain any relief until Aaron tells him to take out his phone. 

“What?”

“Give me your phone,” Aaron repeats. “You celebrities change your number, like, every other day. So, give me your phone and let me put my number in it, and I’ll let you know when you can find me, okay?”

“Okay, yeah. Yeah. Okay.”

Harry pulls out his phone and hands it to Aaron, who quickly puts his contact information in before handing it back with a grin. 

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Aaron says, and Harry smiles back weakly. 

“Yeah. Just. Like. Don’t tell anyone, okay?”

Aaron scoffs at him. “Harry, dude. How the hell would I have any clients if I ran my mouth? I wouldn’t, so don’t stress. And have a good night.” 

With that, he turns away and leaves. In the wake of his absence, Harry looks around quickly, and everybody seems to be far too inebriated to give a fuck about a conversation two dudes are having near the paper towel dispenser, so Harry doesn’t have to worry about that. No, he just has to worry about everything else. 

He goes into the nearest stall and sits down on the toilet, trying to catch his breath. 

-

Louis knows something’s wrong as soon as Harry sits back down at the table. And the question he asks is, “Do you feel sick? You look sick, love,” not, “Are you high?” because Harry has unrightfully gained his trust back and Louis’ first instinct isn’t to assume the worst of him anymore. 

Harry’s such a terrible person. 

To prevent the tears that come rushing to his eyes and throat from spilling, he takes a long sip of the cold Coke in front of him. It helps until he has to talk, has to respond, because the tears are right back to his eyes and he can’t swallow the lump in his throat. He’s just relieved that nobody seems to be paying any attention to them. 

“We can go,” Louis whispers, his hand gentle on Harry’s hip. Harry lets out this shuddering breath, like it died in his throat before it got out all the way, and Louis presses closer. “Hey. Let’s go.”

“I can’t go out and deal with -- not when I feel like this.”

Louis doesn’t ask how he feels. Instead, he says, “We can go out the back. You did them a favor in coming here, and they can do the same by helping you leave. It’s not a big deal, love. Let’s just go, okay? And we can go home?”

It’s a blur, the goodbyes and weaving through people and getting to the car. It’s too much when they first get outside and there’s ear-piercing quiet, no more shouts or laughs or music, and Louis guides him into the car. Harry wants to tell him that he’s not doing this on purpose, that he was trying to have a good time, that he doesn’t mean to be so much of a mess all the time, but he can’t get any of that out because he swears to God, he might actually be having a panic attack right now. 

He manages to say as much, and Louis instantly cracks the window and grabs his hand. It’s not enough, it really isn’t, but it is enough for Harry to want to push through this, to prevent the maybe-panic attack from turning into a full-blown one. He presses his forehead against the cool glass, closes his eyes, and breathes. _It’s easy,_ he tells himself, _don’t overthink it, don’t question it. Look, you’re doing it, just keep doing this. Don’t stop doing this._

By the time they get home, Harry is sure he didn’t and won’t have a panic attack, but that doesn’t mean that he’s magically okay, because he’s fucking not. He’s really fucking not. He’s tense and flustered and his head hurts and everything still feels like it’s moving too fast, even though the only things that are moving in this house are Bongo and Louis. 

He doesn’t even remember the journey to their room, although he doesn’t question it and immediately kicks his shoes off and climbs into bed. He lays on his stomach and wraps his arms around the pillow, closes his eyes. It’s both a blessing and a curse that Louis is behind him, because Louis helps Harry be good, be healthy, be happy, and yet he’s the one who is hurt the worst by these stupid fucking emotional outbursts that Harry can’t control. 

“Harry,” Louis says, gentle but firm. He slips his hand under Harry’s shirt and rests his hand on his lower back. “You can go to bed, or you can just relax, but you need to tell me what this is about now, okay? Everything else we can talk about in the morning, I just need to know what’s going on.”

“You’re asking if I’m high,” Harry chokes out, and he bursts into tears because it’s _true,_ it’s the _truth_ , and Harry never wanted to be asked that fucking question again, and now it’s -- he fucking wishes he were. High. Because if he was high right now, he could give a more convincing lie of _yes_ than he can the truth of _no_. 

“Hey, hey, we’re just talking,” Louis says quietly. He leans down and kisses Harry’s shoulders, reassuring him, a silent promise that he won’t be mad no matter what. “There’s no accusations here, okay? Nothing like that. I just need to know. We can talk about the rest in the morning.”

“I’m _not,_ ” Harry sobs out, and he’s crying so hard that it hurts, everything on fire. And because he knows there’s absolutely no way that Louis believes him, “I’m not, Louis, I swear, I swear, I’m not, I -- I’m not, I promise, I swear to fucking God, I -- ”

“Okay, okay. It’s okay. I believe you, babe. It’s okay.”

“You don’t,” Harry cries, because there’s no way he can, not when Harry’s this much of a mess, not when he was acting so off all night. 

“You haven’t lied to me in a really long time, Harry. I believe you.”

And he sounds so sure, so trusting, and it hurts even worse because Harry _has_ lied. Multiple times. About the wine in Italy, Aaron, about -- God, that’s not even all of it, probably. Harry didn’t just stop doing stupid shit because he got sober. He’s still a bad fucking person, apparently. Heroin didn’t make him that way, he just always has been bad and heroin made it worse.

“You can cry,” Louis whispers, voice so close. “You can always cry, you know that. But I need you to breathe too, alright? Just make sure you keep breathing right.”

Harry nods into the damp pillow, and Louis presses his hand firm against his back. 

It’s a long night. A really, really long night. Harry falls asleep after forty-five minutes of laying there, and Louis probably thought it was over, wasn’t expecting Harry to wake up him two hours later crying again. And then again when Harry slips out of the room four hours later, a hand over his mouth to quiet the cries, because he can’t stop and Louis needs to sleep because not everything is about fucking Harry. Louis follows him downstairs, though, and curls up with him on the couch. Not once does Louis tell him to stop crying, and not once does Harry believe him when he says that everything’s going to be okay. 

-

So, obviously last night wasn’t the first night Harry broke down like that. He did it in Italy, he’s done it countless times before that, it’s -- at the risk of sounding like a broken record, addiction is a huge weight to carry, and he drags it around with him everywhere he goes, every single day. It’s having a vicious instinct that you have to quiet over and over again, even though it’s a part of you, like being thirsty or hungry or cold. It was like how Louis kept complaining about the heat the first day here, over and over again, because the weather wasn’t changing and neither was he. It’s like that, but so much worse, so much more constant. 

He’s broken down before, and he’ll do it again. There’s nothing wrong with crying, anyway. That shit needs to be released somehow, and yeah, maybe he should start exercising like a crazy person again for another outlet, but for now, he can handle crying. Normal crying, that is. Because he can’t handle the type of crying that isn’t born from stress, but from a mistake on his end, an idiotic decision that still has a home in his phone. 

Since he’s not deleting that contact, he doesn’t think he deserves Louis’ affection or care. Harry might have not had a choice last night, he could possibly make that argument, although now he has a clear head and is out of that environment, and Aaron is still in his phone, and that can’t be blamed on anyone or anything except himself. 

Louis lets it go all morning, the way Harry shrugs off his touches and answers in more grunts than words. He’s probably assuming they’ll have all the time in the world to talk about it on the plane, because whenever Bongo comes with them, they take the private jet. But even then, even when they’re sat down in a plane and Bongo’s in Harry’s lap, Harry can’t take hearing Louis’ concerns or love. He can’t handle either of that. 

“Okay, now you’re starting to scare me,” Louis tells him after twenty-five minutes of near-silence. They’re on opposite sides of a section of seats, facing each other, their legs next to the other on the chair. Bongo is sound asleep in between Harry’s legs, and Louis is looking at Harry like talking about any of this has ever made a difference. 

And it has. Harry has to remind himself that talking does help, because it has over and over again in the past. It’s just. When you’re not willing to expose a secret or two that have a huge impact on the conversation at hand, there’s no point in talking about it. None. 

“I’m okay,” Harry says, and Louis shakes his head. 

“You’re not,” he argues. “And that’s okay, right? I know that. I know that you might not be ready to talk about whatever it is. But usually if you’re not ready to talk about something serious, you at least talk to be about normal things, and you’re not even doing that. You’re just, like. Shut down on me here.”

“Sorry,” Harry says quietly, because he is. He really is. “We can watch a movie or something. You’ll have to come over here, though, ‘cause of ‘Go.”

Louis’ frown deepens as he circles his fingers around Harry’s ankle. “You don’t have to fake it for me, love. I don’t want you to do that.”

“Then I guess I’m confused about what you _do_ want, Louis.” It’s not mean, but it is sharp, and he rolls his eyes at himself and scrubs a hand over his face. He stares out the window. “I’m just, you know. In one of those moods where I feel like I can’t be nice, so. I’d rather just shut up so I don't accidentally snap at you.”

Louis doesn’t buy it, even though it’s partly the truth. It’s not the complete truth, and he can tell. Harry goes through phases of emotions constantly, flip-flopping daily; Louis knows how to read him by now, and it’s terrifying. “I need you to tell me what happened last night, Harry,” Louis says firmly, like he won’t ask again. 

“Then fucking drug test me,” Harry snaps, properly now. “I know that’s what you’re fucking asking after, so -- ”

“It’s not, but the fact you keep saying that it is makes me wonder if that _should_ be the question I’m asking.” Again, Louis’ so calm, so patient, and it’s _infuriating_. “Just tell me what got you so worked up. Please. I can’t help if you don’t talk to me.”

And that was probably the worst thing Louis could have said. 

“You can’t help at all,” he seethes. “Nobody fucking can. Not you, and not Reese, and not -- not anybody, because apparently you two are the only two fucking people I have anymore. I’m so fucking _glad_ that I got sober for this. To be _alone._ ” And he has no idea where that came from. It’s obviously been festering, because something in his stomach feels lighter suddenly. “Nick just makes me feel bad all the time, and Zayn -- I can’t even _remember_ the last time he called me. ‘Cause he just fucking abandoned me, he just -- ” He shakes his head and continues to glare at the window, feeling breathless. “Other people’s help is pointless. I’m stuck in this by myself. There’s no fucking fixing it.”

Louis pauses shortly, and then, “That’s not true, H.”

“It’s not?” Harry nearly shouts, and it’s loud enough to irritate Bongo. He sets a hand on his hand, a silent apology, but he can’t apologize to Louis just yet, not when he fucking forewarned him not to push him right now. “Because if it wasn’t all on me, then I would be fucking cured by now, because this is -- because it’s _me,_ alright? This is a part of _me_.” 

There’s a good chance he’s not making any sense and that all he’s doing is being mean, cruel, which is why he didn’t want to talk about this. He’s defensive and angry at himself; Louis didn’t need to get in the middle of it, but of course he did because he’s a good husband, it’s just -- shit. All of it. It’s so shit, and he’s sick of it. 

Louis looks like he doesn’t even know what to say, which only adds to the mess that is Harry’s brain at the moment. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry says, voice made flat by his attempt to keep the anger out. That’s all he feels right now. With a heavy sigh, he pulls his feet from next to Louis and tucks them underneath himself, disturbing Bongo in the process. He doesn’t leave, though. 

“It does matter.”

“It doesn’t,” Harry repeats. He closes his eyes and sets his head against the seat, long past the point of tired. All he has to do is go home, lock himself in the house for the next few weeks, go to that Gucci event (which he actually, legally has to go to; he signed contracts), come back, and lock himself back up again. Until this passes, this awful, pissy mood of his, it’s probably best for everyone if he stays away. 

-

By some miracle, the next month isn’t completely terrible. 

The pressure and anxiety don’t fade, they’re still tight around his limbs and throat, but he isn’t crying or arguing with Louis every other day. He’s not following dealers into the bathroom of any pubs. No, he’s at home, because he doesn’t leave unless it’s for an NA meeting, a pointless drive, to the gym, or the rare occasion that he actually goes somewhere with Louis. Louis leaves, obviously. He goes out with friends and runs errands and -- well, okay, he doesn’t leave _that_ much. He probably could do with going out more, but he won’t push Harry or leave him by himself at home to sulk on his own. 

Home can be fun, though. They make it fun. They use their pool more in a month than they have since they bought the house, probably, because it’s the only form of exercise that Louis will join in on, most likely because it ends up with more kissing than any actual swimming.

They cook together a lot, an unspoken form of intentional bonding. Even if it’s just pancakes in the morning or sandwiches for lunch, both of them are in the kitchen together for at least one meal of the day. It’s a new change of pace, a nice one. One that makes Harry feel the most at home since he’s been off tour, which has been months at this point. 

They have a lot of sex and Harry smokes a lot and forces himself to get back into the habit of reading and meditation. Yoga, when he feels like. Every time he feels antsy, he forces himself to do something about it, no matter how small the feeling is or what time of day it is. He’ll exercise, or call Reese, or write in his journal, or go to group -- anything. Anything that he’s found to work over the years. 

You could say he’s doing better. You could say he’s doing okay, even -- he’s holding off on determining that one until he slowly enters the outside world again. None of it means that he’s not still so exhausted, though. He’s so tired. It’s such an effort to remain stable, and that’s not what he signed up for. Five years ago, yes, that’s what he signed up for, but not fifteen years ago, not when he started. 

It doesn’t matter how it started, or how it kept on for a decade, or how it was last year. It doesn’t matter how it was yesterday, Reese told him, because today is the only today that matters. _Just focus on one day at a time until it stops being so daunting_. 

Today, he has a Gucci event in Milan, Italy. Today, he gets to wear three ridiculously weird yet gorgeous outfits that make him look better than he could ever feel. Today, he gets to sit next to Louis and Nick at a fashion show, right in the front, and Louis has to pretend to look interested for the duration of the event. Today, Harry wakes up feeling fucking ready to go. 

Today, Harry ends up doing a line of coke in the models’ bathroom, after he already swallowed two blue pills. That’s later, though. Now, he’s getting out of the car in a baby blue suit with Louis already grabbing for his hand and Nick following close behind them. He’s walking through the crowd, waving to the paps, smiling at fans. There are a lot of eyes on him tonight, both critical and admiring, and it’s intimidating as all hell. It always has been, probably always will be. 

When they get inside, they get a brief tour of the place. Where the dressing room is, where the show will be, where they’ll sit. The guide is very kind, and shy, too, judging by the way she almost immediately scurries off when Alessandro comes over to greet them with a wide smile and a tight hug. 

Alessandro gives them a tour of his own; this time, it involves a lot more socializing with big-wigs in the industry, people whose eyes glide over Harry easily, like they’re not quite sure if he’s supposed to mean something or not. Harry does good, though. So do Louis and Nick. Focus and subtly redirecting the conversation away from topics that he has no idea about, like last season’s “in” boot, are what gets Harry through it all. And Alessandro’s guidance, of course, because he always manages to make Harry feel like he’s not out of his element here. 

When Alessandro has to get pulled away from something, he kisses their cheeks and points them to the direction of backstage, where all the models are starting to get ready. Harry has somehow made himself a fuck ton of model friends over the years, so saying hi to a few people is on his agenda tonight. 

“Do you care if I ditch you to go exploring while you talk to your friends?” Louis asks once Alessandro is gone. “I don’t know anybody here, and I’d feel awkward standing in the corner of a dressing room, just not saying anything and watching people get dressed like a creep.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Harry agrees easily, because what is there to disagree with? What is there to think twice about? 

“I think I’m ditching you, too, mate,” Nick says with a nervous smile. He promised Harry that he wouldn’t be “off” tonight, and Harry didn’t ask what he meant by that, but apparently Nick feels like this is part of it. 

“It’s fine, honest. I’ll come find you two in my dressing room in, like, a half hour, yeah?” 

He kisses the side of Louis’ mouth before turning and heading in the direction of the backstage area. As he goes, Nick calls out a reminder that the show starts in an hour, and Harry throws a thumbs up in the air. 

Harry’s been backstage before, is the thing. In passing, usually, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know what goes on back here. It’s chaotic and loud and there are a handful of people standing around, basically paid to rush and yell at the models. It makes him anxious and he always feels like he’s in the way, so he says hi to who he needs to say hi to and promises to catch up with them at the after party. 

_That’s_ where Harry is used to seeing the coke. At the after _party_ , when he has Louis by his side and a typically-clear head. Maybe it shouldn’t be so fucking shocking, seeing lines of coke, but he would declare himself pretty fucking shocked. 

It happens right before he’s about to slip out. He said hi to Sarah and Kate, he wished them both luck, and he was supposed to do the same for Paige, but she’s in the bathroom, apparently, so Harry doesn’t bother. He is literally in the midst of saying goodbye when someone asks where Nat is, _where’s Nat, where’s Nat, I need Nat_ , and one of the other girls says she’s in the bathroom. 

“Well, can someone go _get_ her please,” the handler snaps. She’s crouched in front of a nervous-looking model, a pin tucked between her teeth. Nobody moves at first, everybody too busy worrying about themselves, and somehow her eyes fall on Harry. “Go and tell Nat that if she’s not out here in two seconds, I’m making her walk out naked.”

Unlike these women apparently are, he’s not used to being yelled at. “Me?” he asks, genuinely confused, and she scoffs at him. 

“Yes, you’re the only one not doing anything. Go.”

So, he goes, because Christ, that woman can yell and she’s getting progressively meaner the longer he stands there. He slips his way around girls and handlers and thrown-about shoes until he gets to the door in the back to the bathroom. He considers knocking, but it’s too loud for it to make a difference, so he pokes his head in and adverts his eyes (as if seventy-percent of the women he just walked past weren’t nude) and says, “Uhh, Nat, you’re needed.”

“Oh, great,” someone says, presumably Nat. And then from Paige, “Mr. Styles, I didn’t expect you to be here.”

Nat pushes past Harry as he steps further into the bathroom to talk to Paige. The three other girls in here don’t even give him another look, so he assumes it’s fine. And he’s just about to ask Paige if she’s ready for the show when he glances behind her shoulder in time to see the model behind her snort a line of coke off the counter. 

He can’t even see it, the coke. He just sees the way she hunches over, hears the sniff, then the telltale cough. She pulls back and wipes her nose with the back of her hand before brushing off the counter, the remnants of the drug, and Harry immediately knows he’s fucked. 

Heroin and coke are two very different things. He’s aware of that. He’s _too_ fucking aware of that, probably. But it’s -- it’s right there, and they’re sort of close, except not really, and -- yeah, maybe it’s true that he’s only tried coke a handful of times in his life and he’s never been a fan, but _it’s right there_. 

Paige laughs at him as she leans over the sink to put in colored-contacts. “Marge, I think my friend here either thinks you’re really hot or wants a bump.” She laughs again, and Harry listens to it closer this time, and there’s a good chance that she’s high, too. “And he’s married to a guy, so.”

Marge. Fucking _Marge_. She really is fucking gorgeous, and Harry wishes that he was lusting over her instead of _cocaine_. And her laugh, the way she comes closer, the daze about her as she smiles sweetly at him -- he feels really safe, suddenly. Like it’s only Paige and Marge and the girl in the corner checking her thong in the mirror on this planet, and nobody is even going to notice or care if he does one small bump. 

“I have pills, too,” she says, reaching over Harry to grab her bag from behind him. She drags it over and pulls out a baggy of blue pills, shows them to him. “These won’t get you super fucked up, or anything. Like, these are for after the show to help me calm down from the rush of it all. But if you _want_ to get fucked up, Syd is the one with the coke.”

Syd makes her presence known with an annoyed, “I swear my ass looked better an hour ago.”

Pills. Pills. Harry can do pills. Pills are less likely to make him noticeably different, they won’t show on his face, they are probably less likely to cause any real harm -- and it’s odd, the way he knows that he’s lying to himself and still somehow believing every word he’s thinking. Pills are better than coke, and that’s how Harry ends up swallowing two tiny blue pills that Marge put on his tongue. 

For a fraction of a second, something smaller than a fraction, even, he feels good. Really fucking good. But then he realizes that he doesn’t feel anything at all, actually. Nothing. It’s pills, though, so he waits for them to kick in as he talks to Paige and Syd, who are apparently on last so they have some time. Marge leaves only a few minutes after she gave the pills to Harry, so he can’t even ask her how long it takes for them to kick in. 

After ten minutes and he still feels nothing, he asks Paige, and she shrugs and says she wouldn’t know. But it’s making him antsy, because the time is ticking and he needs to go, the show starts in thirty bloody minutes and Nick and Louis are waiting for him in the dressing room, and he has to get dressed still and it’s -- he didn’t come in here for drugs, but now that he’s already here, now that he already has two pills floating in his system -- he’s not leaving here with nothing. Absolutely fucking not. 

He barely even has to ask Syd, is the thing. All he does is step towards her and say her name in a near-wrecked voice (because he’s panicking again, he’s spiraling again, because all he does is panic and spiral) and she kicks at her bag and tells him what pocket to look in. 

It’s frantic, the way he makes a line with shaking fingertips, leans down, and snorts the whole thing like he was made for it. It immediately fucking hits him, is the thing, because after the initial head rush of snorting something up his nose, the fuzzy feeling just stays there and he sits back on the floor, still stressed but hazy and high. He’s high. 

For the first time in almost five and a half years, he can say that he’s officially high again, and it feels awful. 

The powerful clash of excitement and brightness and just _go go go_ from the coke with the heavy, dark shame and regret is nauseating, and it makes him feel sick, so he stays on the floor for a little while, just staring at the edge of the sink that he’s eye-level with. A large part of himself just keeps saying let it go for now, feel the high, and deal with it later, but he can’t even do that, because _this doesn’t feel good_. It doesn’t feel good, it doesn’t, and he’s about to cry, and it’s --

If it was heroin, he knows in his heart that he would be on top of the world right now, unable to care about anything else in the world. But it’s not, it’s cocaine. He gave up being clean from drugs for some pills and coke, and that’s humiliating and defeating and Harry needs to get up off the floor now so nobody ever fucking finds out. 

He manages it, and getting up was the hard part. He steals a pair of sunglasses off the counter that Paige says it’s fine to, slides them on, and walks out of the room as perfectly normal as he can. He doesn’t even know if he looks high or not, is the thing. He’s walking towards his dressing room, one foot in front of the door, and he hasn’t fallen yet, so. That’s about all he can ask for right now. 

He doesn’t even remember which room is him, but surely, the one that says RESERVED FOR HARRY STYLES couldn’t be for any else. Before he grabs for the door knob, he hesitates, because if he goes in there -- there’s no way to hide this. There’s no way to prevent Louis from seeing that he’s high, not when he can barely feel his legs and his head is swimming the way it is. There isn’t exactly another option, though, is there? What does he do, leave? He can’t do that, and he can’t go to the runway on his own, because he’s not in the right outfit. People are expecting him out there, in the _front_ row. He can’t leave without facing the cameras, and he can’t stay without facing Louis. 

_Jesus Christ, what did you do? Why did you fucking do that? You knew it was bad and wrong and you did it anyway. You just went and did it fucking anyway. Have you not learned_ anything?

And then the door opens, and Harry comes face to face with Nick. 

“Jesus, mate, I was ready to send out a BOLO for you, come on. You have to get changed.”

Harry manages to stay steady for all of three steps. One, two, three, and then he sits down on the couch, not entirely gracefully. There are two people talking to him, Nick and the stylist, and Harry tunes them out because it’s not Louis, and if anyone is going to put it together, it’s Louis. 

That time comes when the stylist Kenya asks, “Are we still going with the loafers?” He doesn’t know why he feel so inclined to stop ignoring them to answer the question, but when he does, his answer of, “Umm, yeah -- the black ones right, the -- yeah, the loafers,” sounds dazed and misshapen even to his own ears. 

Kenya grabs the blazer off the hanger, Nick looks at Louis, and Louis looks at Harry. It’s like a domino effect or something, because Harry silently told Louis all that he needed to know and now Louis’ doing the same for Nick. It’s terrifying, that’s what it is. Embarrassing. 

“Harry,” Louis starts off slowly. “Are you high?”

And, well. 

“Mhmm.”

Because he can’t think. He can’t think, because if he thinks, then he’ll feel, and he doesn’t have the liberty to do that right now. He needs to stand the fuck up, let Kenya help him get dressed, and then he needs to go sit at a fashion show. _That’_ s what he needs to do. He can skip the after party -- he _will_ , he can’t withstand any of those pressures right now, it’ll crack his brain right in two -- but he can’t skip this. The only two options are numb or hysterical, and he has to force himself to go with the former the best he can. 

The silence lasts so long that Harry is actually relieved when Louis asks, “On what?”

Harry slides his hands over his face, under the glasses, and sets his elbows on his knees. He needs to talk to Reese, because he can’t go to group right now, and he can’t talk to her either, he doesn’t have time. And he’s supposed to be remaining fucking calm. “Just, like. . . some pills.”

“Okay,” Nick says, and there’s an unmistakable edge of relief to his voice. Pills are bad, but coke is scarier. Honestly, pills might even be more lethal, Harry doesn’t fucking know, but cocaine is just generally more warned about. And now he has to say it out loud. 

“How many?” Louis demands, not angry but scared. “What did you take?”

“Two. And I don’t know.”

“You don’t _know?_ ”

Louis has seen him nearly dead on more than one occasion. He’s called the ambulance on him. He’s cried over him in front of people, thinking he was saying his goodbyes. And that haunts Harry, day in and day out, and now he’s sitting here in front of Louis, yet again making him worry. 

“It was -- it wasn’t anything bad,” he says, even though he doesn’t know. “She said it would make me mellow out a bit, I don’t know.”

“Harry,” Louis says, and he suddenly sounds so much closer. Harry moves his hands from his face, and Louis’ right there, crouched in front of him. He looks frantic, concerned, so fucking sad. “I have asked you so many times to take precautions. ‘If you’re going to relapse, if you don’t have a choice, be smart about it.’ How many times have I told you that? Being cautious does not include taking random pills from strangers, that’s. . .” Louis shakes his head and sets his hands on Harry’s knees, and it’s a gentle touch that Harry doesn’t deserve. He doesn’t deserve anything except maybe being shouted at. 

And then Louis slowly does start to look angry, his eyebrows furrowing and his mouth flattening as he reaches up to tilt Harry’s head down towards him. The glasses are shoved upwards to his hair, so his undoubtedly blown-wide pupils are what Louis’ staring at. 

“Pardon me for not being well-versed in drugs,” he says, “but do pills make your pupils that big?”

“I did a bump of coke, too,” Harry tells him immediately, _immediately,_ because he’s not fucking around with this anymore. He can keep things from Louis, but he can’t lie to his face. Not like this, not anymore. “I was going to tell you, okay, you just didn’t let me finish.”

Louis pulls back from him, his hands gone, and he looks -- disappointed isn’t the right word. Crushed, maybe. Devastated. Heartbroken. Now that Harry has already done it, he regrets it. Obviously. That’s how these types of things work. And he knew that it would hurt Louis, and himself, and potentially his career, and he did it anyway because he’s just an awful person apparently. 

“It was just a line,” Harry repeats, like that matters. Like it’s not just going to make Louis look even more disappointed in him. (It does.) “And I know I shouldn’t have mixed the two, and I know I shouldn’t have done it all, and I know I -- I know we have to talk about this later, but -- but -- “ his eyes shoot up to Nick for help, then to Kenya, who’s standing there awkwardly. 

“But the show starts in a half hour and you need to get out there,” Nick finishes tonelessly, and Harry nods, swallowing thickly. Nick just looks tired. “Let me go find you some glasses that actually match, then.”

“Black or red,” Kenya says to him as Nick opens the door. “Or brown. Maybe brown.”

And then Nick’s gone and Kenya’s coming closer to him with his clothes in her hands and Louis scoots out of the way. It’s inhumane, the way Harry keeps doing this to him. To them both. It’s cruel and selfish and painful, _so_ painful, and if Harry thinks to himself, _it was only coke, it wasn’t heroin,_ one more time, he might actually explode. 

By the time Nick gets back with a pair of simple black Gucci sunglasses, Harry’s already dressed in his bright, attention-grabbing red suit. Without a glance, Nick hands him the glasses, and Harry slides them on, hiding his dilated pupils from the rest of the world. 

“Okay,” Kenya says, because nobody else wants to say it. This event doesn’t matter anymore. “I think you’re ready, Harry.”

Louis stands up and heads to the door, and Harry follows, his eyes glued to the ground in front of him. 

-

The show is exactly nineteen minutes, and for basically the whole thing, Harry’s head feels heavy and his eyes aren’t focusing right and he’s so scared that someone’s going to figure out that he’s high that he keeps finding himself holding his breath for so long that it makes him feel faint. 

Harry just wants to go back to the hotel, fast forward through the strong talking-to he’s going to get, and go straight to bed. And then he wants to fast forward again, this time to when they’re at home in London, because so far that’s the only place that Harry hasn’t screwed up in recently. 

The way that Louis’ hand doesn’t leave his the entire time is incredibly painful; at first, because Harry thinks he’s just doing it to please the cameras, and then even worse when he realizes that no, that’s not true. Because Louis’ holding his hand firmly, strongly, and he keeps swiping his thumb over the back of Harry’s. Louis’ holding his hand because he wants to, and there’s at least a part of him that only wants to because he’s terrified that he’s going to lose Harry soon. Through death or through a nose-dive back into addiction, Harry might be leaving him again. 

After the show, after the drawn-out goodbyes, after the congratulations of people’s hard work, the three of them finally get to the car, and as soon as that door shuts, Harry can’t hold back an apology any longer. That’s all he says, those two words. As if they have ever meant anything when it comes to this. 

Since the driver is one of Nick’s close people, they are able to talk freely about this in the car. As soon as Nick reminds him of this, Louis reaches into Harry’s coat pocket and hands him his phone. “Call Reese.”

Harry takes his phone, but he’s not going to do that. “Not around people,” he says slowly, because he is all-too aware of the fact that he doesn’t have much room to want things done a certain way. “I will when we get back to the hotel, okay, but not -- not around anyone. Not around you.”

Louis bites down on his lip, thinking that over. “Okay,” he relents. “But you have to call her to tell her the truth.”

“I know,” Harry whispers, and he takes a deep breath and swallows. He wants to roll down the window but he can’t, because they still haven’t made it past the lines of cameras. Louis’ attention shifts to Nick, so Harry leans his forehead against the car window and tries to figure out what feeling belongs to what cause. The drowsiness is probably from the pills. The coke has already passed mostly, but the headache could be from it anyway, or maybe it’s the stress that caused it. His nose is burning because of the bump, and he wipes at it self-consciously, worried that it looked red in pictures even though he knows it didn’t. 

“Twitter looks clear of any speculation,” Nick says, like that’s supposed to make Harry feel better. It will, if that’s actually the truth. One tweet could blow up in a matter of seconds; maybe a guest will tweet about it when they get home, or one of the models, or the event planners -- anyone. Harry’s not cleared yet. He’ll be on edge about it for days. 

It wasn’t fucking worth it. He’s just going to keep thinking that, and it’s going to be echoed by the same vicious, _of course it wasn’t, and you knew it wouldn’t be, but you did it anyway_. It’s not just an issue of self-control, it’s so much more than that. So much more than _him_. 

“We need to talk about this,” Nick says, as if he’s ever been the fucking sensible one. As if this didn’t all start because of everything Nick’s job stands for. Harry’s shifting blame, and nothing good happens when he does that, but goddammit, this guilt is getting too much to carry.

“Not right now,” Harry tries, even though he knows it won’t work. 

“We have to,” Louis says. “Me and Nick -- we aren’t going to fall into those same stupid, passive, powerless roles that we took on before. We can’t -- you can’t expect us to just not -- ”

“Don’t talk down to me like I’m a child.” Harry closes his eyes, wishes he had more energy to get angry. Being angry always feels good in the moment, and right now, he’d do anything to stop feeling like this. Like he’s the fucking scum at the bottom of the barrel. 

“You could’ve gotten hurt tonight,” Nick says, on the verge of snapping, and Harry _dares_ him. He fucking hopes he does, because the minute Nick pushes him, Harry will push right back. “This wasn’t some stupid accident that only matters because of your sobriety, it matters because you could’ve hurt yourself, and it matters because -- because it could be a sign of things to come, okay, and we need to talk about that.”

“You know what the doctors said,” Louis says. “About how your body isn’t the same anymore, and how you getting hooked again -- on anything, Harry, don’t think this isn’t as serious because it’s not heroin -- it could seriously hurt your body. Your kidneys won’t be able to break it down like they used to, and -- ”

“Jesus Christ, Louis, stop talking,” Harry hisses, and he curls away from them, tucks himself closer into the car door. He doesn’t want to talk about his fucking kidneys; they’re fucking fine and they won’t stop being fine because of one slip up. 

“Harry,” Louis says, his tone of voice pitying. 

“No,” Harry snaps, still not opening his eyes. “You two don’t get to sit here and try to, like, scare me. I know the fucking consequences, I’m a grown adult, and I don’t feel like being on the other side of your attempt in making yourselves feel better about the last time.”

Because that’s what they’re doing, isn’t it? Undoubtedly, there are different painful memories sticking out in their brains that are fueling this -- whatever _this_ is. Their scare tactics, because that’s what they’re doing. If Harry’s going downhill, Louis and Nick want their hands clean, want to be able to say _we tried to tell him_. And that’s not the whole picture, Harry is plenty aware of the fact that Louis loves him and cares about him and wants nothing more than to see him at his best, but on some level, they both are trying to lessen the amount of guilt they’ll have to hold later. 

“So, you want us just to sit here and tell you it’s okay?” Nick asks, and he sounds angry, as if he has any right to be. Maybe he does, Harry doesn’t really know. All he knows is that Louis and Nick don’t stop talking the entire way to the hotel, talking about consequences and discipline and patterns of behavior. Drawing parallels from the past, using them to make him fear the future. And Harry just sits there, half-listening, half-not, because he doesn’t need to hear all of this. 

Tonight wasn’t an issue of not knowing the repercussions of his actions. It wasn’t him not caring about them, either. It was -- it was -- something. Harry doesn’t know what it was, but he does know that Louis and Nick have no way of understanding it more than he does. 

Reese understands, because she’s been through this before and has been an addict since she was fourteen. She was in and out of sobriety until she turned thirty, until she fully worked the program, dug her feet into the ground, and found a way to not fuck up again. She’s been sober for nine straight years, and that’s a fuck ton, but she was still high longer than she’s been sober. She’s been in the exact same boat as Harry is currently losing his balance on. 

“I can’t give you the answer as to why you relapsed tonight,” she says. Harry is sat on the bathroom floor, leaned against the wall farthest from the door for some illusion of privacy, and that word makes him flinch. He’s crying now, has _been_ crying, and just hearing her say that word to him sends more tears to flood over. “I can guess. You’re clearly depressed, or at least facing some sort of _emotional_ relapse. You keep telling yourself that you understand the program works, that you can stay sober, but I don’t think you do. I don’t think you see yourself ever living a steady life in sobriety, Harry. And until you do, you’re just not going to.”

He thinks back to that meeting where he admitted that he wouldn’t be surprised if he relapsed. They told him that it wasn’t the right way to go about this, and instead of trying to find one, he just shut down from the embarrassment and never sought-out an answer. They gave him his warning a long time ago, he ignored it, and now he’s suffering the consequences. 

“Remember what I was telling you about the other day?” she asks. “About taking things one day at a time? I need you to do that for yourself right now. I need you to say to yourself, ‘You know what? I fucked up today, but today isn’t tomorrow, and tomorrow I’ll face challenges that I know I can beat.’”

“Okay,” Harry whispers. His legs are pulled to his chest and he’s resting his head on his arm, so he nods against his arm. He feels weak and exposed and like a failure, but she’s right, he has to tell himself that tomorrow’s version of himself doesn’t have to be any of those things. 

“No, Harry. I want you to actually say it.”

His stomach twists and he closes his eyes, because that’s -- no. That’s embarrassing. Reese doesn’t need to hear him say it, nor does he need to actually physically hear the words to know that they’re true.

“I know what you mean,” he says. “I get it. I don’t have to say it.”

“If you keep holding back, you won’t ever move forward. Say it, Harry. Come on. It’s just me.”

Harry stays silent, wondering how long she’ll press this for. 

“If you can’t say it to me, then I don’t believe you can convincingly say it to yourself.”

It’s enough to get Harry to want to get the words out, because if he stays silent, he’s denying an opportunity to say that he believes in himself. If Harry can’t do that, if Harry can’t say he believes in himself, then what have the last five years been for? What is anyone around him sticking around for? If he can’t say he believes himself, then he shouldn’t ask anyone else to. 

It’s hard to say, though. He opens his mouth, fully prepared to do it, but it’s awkward and uncomfortable. Nobody just talks to themselves like this, do they? Most personal pep-talks are down inwardly, not outwardly, and definitely not with someone on the other line asking to hear it. But Harry can’t give up here, or else he doesn’t have a chance at this. 

“I fucked up today,” he gets out, and it’s wrecked and thin and somehow so loud in the bathroom, even though he’s trying to be quiet so Louis can’t hear. Tears keep coming, and he brushes them away. “I fucked up today,” he repeats, “but I don’t have to fuck up again tomorrow. And -- and whatever else you said, I don’t remember.”

“You’ll face challenges tomorrow that you know you can beat.”

He pinches the skin between his eyebrows and takes a deep breath. “And I’ll face challenges tomorrow that I know I can beat.”

“Keep going, if you can,” she encourages gently, and at first he doesn’t think he knows what to say, and then suddenly, it all spills out of him. 

“This -- all this shit, it doesn’t have to mean anything. It doesn’t. The urges and the itch, that’s all, like, chemicals or something, like, it’s all in my head. It’s all in my head, which is the same place my goals and relationships and passions are, and I can’t -- I can’t keep letting it have more power over all that. I can’t, it doesn’t -- it doesn’t need to mean anything, it can just be there, I can -- I can ignore it.” He runs a hand over his face, suddenly feeling both embarrassed and determined. “It can’t control me if I don’t let it.”

A few minutes later, Harry lets Reese go. Far more than a few minutes after that, he gets up off the floor and opens the door. Louis is laying on his side in bed, his phone in his hand, and he immediately glances at Harry, uncertainty on his face. Harry doesn’t have a clue at where to start or what to say, so instead, he heads to bed, pulls back the covers, and slides into bed behind Louis, holding him close to his chest. 

He needs it to mean everything he wants it to. 

-

Anybody can talk. Talk doesn’t mean anything. Because on that night, Harry was feeling like he could really do this, he said so out loud to himself and everything, but he’s now convinced that he can’t. Talk doesn’t mean anything when the thoughts in your head are claiming to mean a whole lot more. 

The cravings, the urges -- they’ve gotten worse. Obviously. It’s only been nine days since he had the coke, and every day, he wakes up to face pain and anxiety and a blinding urge to go fuck everything up. Reese’s ‘every day is a new day’ spiel only works when that’s actually true; from where Harry’s sitting, every single day is the exact same as the next. Over and over and over again, Harry wakes up to a predetermined defeat, and it’s fucking killing him. And he keeps thinking about what Reese said, about him not coming at this with the right mindset. If he hasn’t been doing this whole sobriety thing right for five whole years, how is he supposed to believe he can start now? It’s not easy, throwing out an entire way of thinking and trading it with a new one. He doesn’t know if he can do it again. 

If Harry thinks about it long enough, he swears his mouth actually starts to water at the thought of shooting up. On heroin, not on stupid coke, not with pills. That coke, the way it made him feel -- heroin is that multiplied by a thousand for his brain. It was like every single cell in his body exploded with relief whenever he used, a constant refreshment of his system, even when it was gradually crumpling. 

He won’t even let himself go to the gym, too worried about leaving the house, the fear that heroin is just going to pop out at him as alive as ever. It’s not just that, though. Harry doesn’t have the mental capacity to handle anything big right now, and when he’s feeling this small, a fan asking for a picture, one lone pap, a random strained interaction with a stranger -- those all would feel huge for him right now. 

So, he’s working out in the backyard, just out of sight from the kitchen window. He’s been out here for an hour already and Louis hasn’t come out to check on him, which adds to the flurry inside of Harry’s head. He’s pushing Louis away, intentionally and not, and they’re bickering more than normal and sometimes Harry just doesn’t want to be by anyone, and that’s all shit in itself. The constant, lingering fear that he’ll take it too far, that one fight or another day of tension between them will be the last push Louis needs to leave him again -- that fear makes it even worse. 

That thought process cuts through him deeper than anything else, and he tries to avoid thinking about it at all costs. 

Out here, even in his own backyard, he feels exposed. Watched, almost. It’s a byproduct of being in the spotlight for fifteen years, as well as the fact that he’s incredibly defensive right now. Even against imaginary threats; he’s ready to fucking destroy them before they can destroy him. 

And maybe he was right to feel watched, because Louis finally comes outside to check on him at a near-perfect time. 

Harry’s been at this for ninety-six minutes now, exercising with barely any breaks. When he’s panting and sweating and listening to his muscles scream, it’s hard to focus on everything else. And once he’s done with a set of push-ups, he takes a few deep breaths, counts to twenty, and then grabs the jump-rope. 

He’s at seventy-seven when he starts to get properly dizzy, and he contemplates ignoring it for only a second before he decides he should probably listen to his body. His brain can lie to him over and over and over again, but his body normally won’t. The ground spins viciously for a good minute as Harry stands there, panting, hands clasped over the back of his head even though he has the urge to curl in on himself and possibly puke. 

And then Louis slides open the back door. Breathlessly, Harry turns to him, and Louis is coming closer with a water bottle and a towel. It’s Harry’s first instinct to snap at Louis, to tell him to go, and in an attempt to remedy that because he hates it so, so much, he takes the towel from him and kisses the side of his mouth. The towel is wet, so Harry wipes it over his face before setting it against the back of his neck. Gracelessly, he lowers himself to the ground, and Louis comes with him. 

Immediately, a weighted silence consumes the atmosphere. They’ve talked about it, they have, just, not as much as they should have. Because ‘talking’ about it was just Harry saying _I know, I know, I know that, Louis,_ to everything he had to say. 

So, while they’re both here, Harry tries to offer Louis some sort of acknowledgement, and it fails. 

“I know it was wrong, okay, and I won’t do it again, and I’m sorry, and I’m just -- I don’t know. I don’t even know. So, just, like -- okay?”

Louis’ frowning at him when Harry picks up his head. “No,” he says, voice soft. “No, Harry, because it’s not okay.”

“Then I don’t know how to make it okay, because there’s nothing else to say.” He’s still too out of breath for this conversation, so he lays back against the grass to cool himself down quicker. His skin is sticky and hot with sweat, and the towel is only doing so much to help that. 

“And, like,” Harry says after a moment, because he hasn’t given up. He hasn’t. It might sound like he has, but he’s doing everything in his power to hang on. “Like, I know you don’t want to hear me say it, but it -- it was just coke, alright? And pills, yeah, and I shouldn’t have mixed the two, and I -- I shouldn’t have done either, I know that, and just because it wasn’t heroin doesn’t mean it was safe. Like, I know all that. But I don’t. . . I don’t think it has to mean anything. I mean, I know it means _something_ , but it doesn’t have to mean more than it already does, you know?”

The sun is unforgiving today, and Harry has to throw his arm over his eyes to block it out. Nothing can be done to lessen the impact of Louis’ next words, though. 

“I hate hearing you use the same excuses that you used to.”

And that just feels uncalled for, honestly. It’s not fair to keep hanging that above his head, the years and years that Harry was in the worst of his addiction. Harry _knows_ all about it, he was _there_ , and these -- these aren’t fucking excuses. They’re the truth, they’re his opinions about the situation after he’s thought about it for days, and Louis shouldn’t be so quick to write him off because of past behaviors. It doesn’t even feel like he listened to him at all. 

(Nothing Louis could have said would have been the right thing. Harry’s brain is so fragile right now, nailing everything in sight that could be a possible attack. It can’t take any more hits that it has no control to block, so he deflects and projects and protects himself in a way that hurts everyone around him.)

“I told you almost right away that I had an addiction,” Harry says sharply. “You knew what you were getting yourself into.”

Telling Louis the truth all those years ago is up there with the hardest moments of Harry’s life. He loved Louis like mad already, and he was terrified that telling him was going to ruin what they had together. He knew it was the right thing to do, though. It was. And Harry remembers the way Louis laughed, a little hysterically, and then the near-shrill, “Wait, you’re, like, dead serious, aren’t you? Fucking -- fucking _heroin?_ ”

Louis didn’t leave then, No, he just left in the beginning of their marriage. 

Harry needs to cool down, needs to back down from this fight, because they can’t have it right now. Neither of them are strong enough for this. But Harry baited him, and Louis can’t be blamed for taking it. 

Coldly, Louis says, “I could say the same thing to you. _You_ knew what you were possibly getting yourself into the first time you shot up.”

And that -- Harry can’t think about that. 

Can’t think about the way it was one of his first real industry parties, and sixteen-year-old, up-and-coming Harry Styles walked in on his own and with his hands tucked nervously into his pockets. It was intimidating, all of it; everyone was older and more famous and friends, apparently, because everyone seemed to know everyone. Nick usually came to these sorts of things with him to help him scope out who to talk to, but he let Harry fly solo tonight -- the reason why Louis partly blames Nick for how Harry got hooked. 

And there Harry was, drifting through the crowds, looking for a place to anchor himself. 

The table in the back, the one that was crowded and exploding with laughs -- it seemed like as good of a place as any. So, Harry made his way over, too young to even have a drink to busy his hands with. Like it was the easiest thing in the world, like there was a spot there just for him, Harry got swallowed into the crowd. 

All of the drugs being passed around in the tight-knit circle was too much for his brain to handle. He didn’t realize that’s what they were doing over there, and then he was stuck in a group passing around shit that he doesn’t even know the names of, and it was mad. Every which way he turned, there was a new body to bump into. The embarrassment weighed heavy on his cheeks as someone told him to sit, have a beer, and _\-- shit, you’re that new kid, aren’t you?_

All he could do was nod. 

The thing was, they automatically assumed he was looking for something. Weed, they guessed at first when all Harry did was stare at them when asked what he wanted. And then that guess turned into Oxy, and Harry’s tongue turned even slippier, and everyone was laughing because he looked like an _idiot_. 

“I’ve seen you perform,” someone said. “You looked like you wanna be a rockstar. Do you want to be a rockstar, Harry?”

He swallowed. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Well, I’ve never seen a rockstar so goddamn tense. Supposed to be dancin’ in your boots, not shakin’ in ‘em.”

And everyone laughed, _everyone,_ they were laughing at _him_ , and it was humiliating. He was genuinely near tears -- he just didn’t know what to do or how to act or what to say. He didn’t know any better. So when someone came up, asked for some heroin, and Harry couldn’t take his eyes off the madness of it all, when a woman in fishnet tights and a low cut shirt came over to inject the needle into the man’s arm and Harry couldn’t even _blink_ , well. People noticed, and people laughed, and he was so sick of being laughed at, so when someone said _what, kid, you want some too or something?_ , all Harry could do was nod. 

“This’ll calm you right down, okay, sweetie?” the lady said, and holy fucking shit, she wasn’t lying. 

That high -- the very first one -- was the best feeling in Harry’s entire life. In all thirty-two years he’s been on this planet, that first dose is still his definition of euphoria. Because all of the sudden, he wasn’t nervous. He didn’t feel too small for the crowd. Everyone was still laughing, but so was _he_ now, and it was _incredible._ Amazing. 

Addicting. It was addicting. 

At first, Harry kept going back to chase the feeling. Quite quickly into it, the feeling started chasing him. And it’s never stopped since. 

After all those years, Harry swears he never felt a high as good as the first. Believe him, he tried to find it again, and he never really did. Some came close, but never just quite. And if there’s one sure way to get Harry flustered and angry, it’s to bring up that first time. 

He’s ready to completely tear into Louis when Louis says, “I’m sorry. Shit, Harry, I’m sorry. That wasn’t right.”

“You _know_ how triggering that is for me to think about,” Harry says, and he means for it to sound a lot angrier than it does. It just sounds weak, scared. Shriveled up, almost. 

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. I would never make this harder on you on purpose, I just -- got mad. I’m sorry.”

A hand touches his knee, and Harry surprises even himself with the way he jerks towards the touch. Lately, he’s been flinching away. He presses his hand firmer against his eyes, because there’s no way that he can be ready to cry, not after one tiny jab. 

“I’m sorry, too,” he says, because he has to and because he wants to. Just because he’s going down doesn’t mean he has to take Louis down with him. “Seriously. I don’t mean to be a jerk.”

The kiss planted on Harry’s sweaty knee makes Harry swallow through a thick of tears, breathe deep through a slowly-caving chest. 

“I know that you don’t mean it. That you’re really struggling right now, and you say shit when you don’t know what to do. I’m not. . . I’m not trying to make you feel alone in this, love. I’m sorry if I’m not being supportive in the way you need me to be. I didn’t do a good job the first time, and I’m trying to be better now, it’s just -- I don’t know. I just wish you didn’t push me away.”

From what Harry gathers, for the most part, Louis doesn’t think he could’ve done a better job the first time. He didn’t know how to do it, and he was still too far in denial himself to figure it out. But two things that Louis deeply regrets from all those years ago is giving Harry that ultimatum, the one where he said Harry had to be clean half of a month or else he’d leave, and how he reacted after Harry relapsed after rehab. In the rare times they talk about those two things, Louis gets quiet and embarrassed. Ashamed. He feels like he completely minimized Harry’s pain by giving him that ultimatum, made it seem like an inconvenience. And the anger Louis felt towards him after relapsing -- Harry can’t blame him for that. For either of those things. Louis was young and scared and hurting, too. If Harry’s years and years of mistakes can be forgiven, then so can Louis’. 

Harry sniffles as he sits up. He doesn’t want to be alone in this, either, it’s just hard to know how to accept help right now. From anyone. “Could work out with me,” he says half-heartedly, and Louis makes a face. 

“You’ve been out here for, like, an hour and a half. You need a break.”

Harry just stares at him, maybe with a small pout, and eventually, Louis sighs and stands, says he’ll go put on sunscreen. As he goes, Harry’s eyes follow until the door is shut behind him and he can’t see him anymore. 

They opened up a good dialogue, and it got closed because they got scared, because it got messy. And it’s not wrong, them working out together instead of talking, it’s just. . . Harry keeps shoving things under the rug, and slowly but surely, it’s starting to collect. It’s going to catch up with him -- and soon, probably -- but he doesn’t know what else to do. 

-

Things kick up a notch two weeks later, when Harry decides to reach out to Zayn and gets invited over to dinner. Louis doesn’t want to come, already tucked in for the night, and Harry lets himself have this, gives himself a chance to leave the house on his own, because it’s Zayn. It’s _Zayn._ And Harry isn’t going to miss out on the opportunity to spend time with Zayn, because he fucking misses him and is still silently fuming at the divide between them. Maybe Harry will understand it better when he has a child of his own, who knows. 

When Harry knocks on his door, Zayn opens it with a warm, excited smile. It’s unclear who flings themselves forward first, but it ends in a tight hug with a lot of back-patting and laughs and some friendly insults thrown in, because why not. 

“You look tired,” Zayn says when they pull away, and his smile isn’t as genuine anymore. He looks worried, and his eyes are darting over Harry’s face, trying to find lost answers to questions he didn’t know he should’ve had. Harry wasn’t going to break their new tradition of random, pointless texts to drop this on him. 

“I could say the same thing about you,” Harry says smoothly. “Is that from Khadija, or have you and Michelle been -- ”

“Don’t be a bloody perv,” Michelle says as she walks into the room, the baby on her hip. “I was just about to put her down for the night, but if you want to say hi. . .”

Harry immediately crosses the room to reach them. He kisses Michelle’s cheeks before he says hi to a very unimpressed, very sleepy Khadija. Harry would love to hold her, but he gets the distinct feeling that she would protest it in a heartbeat, so he settles for playing with her tiny fingers and making an idiot out of himself talking to her. 

“How old is she again?” Harry asks, swiping a finger down her nose. “‘S not been a year yet, right?”

“Ten months,” Zayn answers, and Harry thinks, _huh._ He’s only seen her maybe five times in a total of ten minutes. He was touring, though, and then everything happened, and it’s. . . It’s not like Zayn ever demanded he visit. It’s fine. 

Michelle leaves the room to be Khadija down for bed, and Harry and Zayn relocate to the dining room where a simple dish of potatoes, peas, and chicken waits for them. There aren’t any on the table, but there’s a cabinet full of fancy dishware, including wine glasses, and Harry bites down on his lip, hard. 

“I miss you, mate,” Zayn says, and Harry glances at him, catches the frown. “I hope you know that you can always reach out. Like, you _need_ to reach out. I’d kick your ass if I found out I wasn’t the first person you called when you needed someone.”

Harry gives him a smile. “Thanks.”

“Khadija keeps me busy, Harry, but not too busy for you. Seriously. Whenever you need me, I’m here.”

Before Harry can respond, Michelle comes to join them at the table, saying something about Khadija being too tired to put up much of a fight against bedtime tonight. 

The dinner is nice, and Harry is thrilled to have a spot here, to get to hear about their lives and them half-heartedly bickering and to see the way they look at each other. Zayn didn’t marry her because he got her pregnant, he married her because they already decided they wanted a life together, and when the pregnancy happened, it was a good reason to make it official. Harry is happy for them, it’s just. Harry didn’t push Zayn out of his life when he got into a serious relationship with Louis, is all. And sometimes it feels like maybe Zayn just doesn’t have the mental capacity to deal with all of Harry’s emotional baggage, that Harry’s issues are the only reason they aren’t as close as they used to be. 

After dinner, Michelle says she’s going to turn in for the night and Zayn and Harry head outside. The night is cool, but not uncomfortably so, and they sit by the unlit fire pit in the backyard. They used to have so much fun here, back in the days. Too much fun. With how intoxicated they were, it’s a miracle that nobody tripped and face-planted into the flames. 

No, Harry did that on his own, and the fire that he was burned on was a lot brighter than this fir pit used to get. 

“We used to get wasted out here, like, every weekend when we weren’t on the road,” Harry says in a whisper. He has his elbows on his knees and he’s hunched forward, same as Zayn. “It’s, like. Do you ever miss it?”

“Miss what?”

“Like. . . I don’t know. Just everything.”

Zayn thinks it over for a minute or so. “Honestly? Not really. I think we’re both better off where we are right now. It was. . . nice while it lasted, I guess, but I don’t mind being grown up now.”

That makes Harry frown, because he supposes that’s true. That they are grown up now. They’ve been adults for a while now, but they weren’t actually grown up. Harry had to, was practically forced into it, and it probably happened a little more organically for Zayn. Doesn’t matter how it happened, though. It just sort of sucks. 

“That not the answer you were looking for?” Zayn asks lightly, and Harry shrugs. 

“Not really.”

Zayn asks, “What did you want me to say?”

And maybe it’s the recent events, or maybe it’s the mere fact that sometimes being around familiar sites that he associates with the life before stresses him out (and it’s probably just due to the fact that he’s an idiot who apparently has never been good at sobriety and can’t start now), maybe it’s none of that or maybe it’s all of it that brings him to say, “Honestly, was hoping you’d offer to bring out a bottle of whiskey.”

After he says it, he realizes that the only reason why he did is because it’s the truth. 

“Harry, come on, man.”

“What? You asked a question.”

“And you didn’t give me an answer. You just told me what you wanted from me in a way that wasn’t direct so I wouldn’t be able to call you out on it.” He clicks his tongue. “Well, I’m calling you out on it. Don’t ask me for shit like that.”

“Yeah, because that’s all I am, right?” Harry snaps, but the anger doesn’t feel as hot as it used to. He’s just so tired of all this. It haunts him in every one of his relationships, in every one of his days, in all of his nights. “I’m just some master manipulator who always has another motive, can’t be trusted ‘cause I’m just some fucking liar. That’s what you all think of me, apparently.”

“That’s clearly what you think about yourself,” Zayn says gently. It feels protective when Louis takes that tone with him; from Zayn, it’s viciously offensive. “You’re projecting now, I think.”

“I don’t really give a fuck what you think,” he bites out. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and laughs, only slightly manically. “At least I’m not the one pretending I know everything about the other when I haven’t seen you in ages. You don’t get to pretend like you know everything, because you fucking don’t. You don’t know shit.”

“I know that you’re clearly not doing well with your sobriety right now.”

And with that, something snaps inside of Harry. Something long worn down, in a deep, dark place, wilted under the pressure, fragile enough to break because of Zayn’s words. 

“Why, because I asked for a fucking _beer?_ ” he shouts, properly screams. “Because I asked for a beer, just like every other fucking thirty-two-year-old guy would, I’m a fucking criminal now? Really? And you think that you have the right to sit here, all fucking calm and all-knowing, talking about _my_ addiction like you know anything about it? You _don’t_.”

Zayn stares back at him, and he looks pitiful. Not angry, not hurt, none of that. Just pitiful, because Harry isn’t a grown fucking man in anybody’s eyes, just some fucking _thing_ that needs to be coddled and protected. “Please don’t yell. My wife and kid are asleep, okay, and it’s late, and I think you need -- ”

“I don’t give a shit about your wife and kid,” Harry snaps, and Christ, why are there tears in his eyes and a strain in his voice? He’s not mad, he’s angry. He’s so, so fucking angry. “I don’t give a shit about what time it is, or what you think I need, because you don’t _know._ None of you know. This isn’t fucking _easy,_ you know, there’s not some -- some fucking _remedy_ that can _fix_ me. All of you tell me I’m not broken and then turn around and tell me all the ways that I need to fucking fix myself, and then everyone gets fucking mad when I don’t do things right, and -- ”

“Harry,” Zayn says sternly, and the pity is morphing into anger. _Yes,_ Harry thinks. _Yes._ He needs someone that isn’t Louis to get angry with him, to feel this pain so deep in their stomach that the only way to get it out is to scream until they’re blue in the face. “We don’t have to argue about this. We can just talk.”

“You’re the one who started arguing. All I did was ask for some fucking whiskey, for you to spend some goddamn time with me like you used to, and all you did was call me a manipulator and a liar. Those are fighting words.”

Zayn stares at him, so Harry simply continues. 

“All of you say I need to take some fucking accountability for myself, but nobody else seems to do the goddamn same.” He shakes his head, and he’s certain he won’t be able to stop now, not with the anger coursing through his veins, winding him up. “And while we’re on the subject, do you realize that Nick and Louis apologize to me basically every day? Every fucking day, they apologize for playing the part they did in my addiction, but _you_ \-- _you_ have barely done it _once_. And I don’t want your fucking guilt, I’m so goddamn sick of carrying around other people’s guilt, but I think it’s pretty fucking unfair that you got out of that scandal from years ago unscathed when you were nearly always right there fucking next to me. At those parties, at the events, on fucking tour, at the _hospital_ \-- you were right fucking there, always. And Nick got the shit for it, but from where I’m sitting, he’s the only one still by my side.”

“You’re saying I’m responsible for aiding your addiction after getting mad at me for not, _you know,_ aiding your fucking addiction,” Zayn points out, throwing his hands up. “I don’t fucking get you, man. I never fucking have.”

“The _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re confusing as all shit,” he says unhelpfully. “You used heroin as a crutch your whole life, and now you’re using your addiction. You forced Louis to stay by your side when he had every reason to leave, and now you’re undoubtedly pushing him away. And you are fucking manipulative, Harry. I’m sorry, but you fucking are.”

“Fuck you,” Harry spits, standing up. He’s not. He’s _not_. He’s not a good person, but he’s not _evil_. 

“You stopped seeing your therapist because he suggested that you had manipulated some people throughout your addiction and then you told everyone it was because you just liked group better,” Zayn says, and when Harry glares at him, he laughs. “What, am I remembering that wrong? Or did you say that lie so many times that you forgot the truth?”

“I _do_ like group therapy better,” Harry retaliates. “There, it’s other fucking addicts calling me a loser, not people who don’t have any fucking clue at how hard this all is. Not people like _you_.” He feels flustered, hot, hot enough to sweat. And that last dig was harsh, and Harry wasn’t built to withstand much more of this. “And for the fucking record, Dr. Schnell said a lot of addicts unintentionally manipulate the people around them. But you’re just going to go and villainize all of us, right?”

“I’m not calling you a villain. I’m saying you make poor choices, and other people are allowed to point them out.”

“Fuck you.” He’s out of ammo, but not out of anger, not yet. “You’re not fucking perfect either. You’re no fucking saint, so you can’t -- ”

“ _Guys_ , can you _please_ lower your voices? It’s ten o’clock, and Kay’s bedroom is _right_ there.”

Michelle looks furious from where she stands on the back porch. Harry can barely see her under the dim porch light, but he can hear the anger loud and clear. And suddenly, humiliation comes crashing into him, lighting a match to every square inch of his skin as his brain screams at him to _leave. Go, go, go, go, go._

“Michelle, go back inside,” Zayn says, all soft and sorry. “We’ll be quiet. I’m sorry. Go back to bed. Is Khadija still asleep?”

Before he can hear the answer, Harry is already making a beeline for the gate. He needs to leave. He shouldn’t have even come. Who is he to come here, eat their food, and then insult the both of them in the way he did? _I don’t give a shit about your wife and kid,_ rings through his head so loud that he could puke. Loud enough for Zayn’s, _Harry, wait, you don’t have to leave,_ to sound floaty and far away. 

Harry is breathless by the time he reaches the gate, and he shoves it open, walks towards his car. Just as Harry gets his hand on the handle, Zayn’s right there, touching his shoulder and close, just _close close close_ , so close that it makes Harry flinch away, far too overwhelmed already. 

“Hey,” Zayn says, and he’s back to sounding all gentle and pitying. “Hey, come on inside. We don’t even have to talk, okay? We can just sit. Come on, you don’t have to go.”

“Yeah, I do.” Harry pulls open the door, and as he climbs inside, Zayn grabs the door to prevent Harry from being able to shut it. Harry starts the car anyway, because he needs to _go._

“I don’t want you to go, though. I want you to stay, I swear.”

“I don’t care,” Harry says, and he grabs the handle of the door roughly. Zayn gets the message and lets go, and Harry pulls the door shut. 

Just before it shuts, Zayn says, “Don’t you dare go and do something stupid,” and it makes Harry want to laugh. Because yeah, that’s exactly what he’s thinking. It is. As he pulls out of Zayn’s driveway, he grabs his phone with shaking hands and thinks about who he could call to get a hook up. Someone is bound to know someone; he just has to play his cards right. If he tips off the wrong person, they might lure him in just to call Louis, or to get a paycheck from the press. There are people in his contacts that have a connection, there are. He deleted all the dealers off his phone, nobody else. And he would be well on his way to Aaron’s house if it wasn’t for the fact that they are currently in two different countries on opposite halves of the world. 

He has a name in his head -- a distant friend of Nick’s, someone he could bet on trusting -- and he’s about to call her when he notices a car following behind him. _Fucking Zayn,_ Harry thinks, and then he squints, and no, that’s not Zayn. At first, he thinks that if it’s not Zayn, then it’s nobody and he’s just being paranoid. He turns, though, and so does the car, so he turns again, and --

Jesus fucking Christ, of course he’s being tailed by the paps. Out of all the nights possible, the paps decided to be fucking terrible people tonight. That’s just Harry’s fucking luck. And he can’t just go and lead them to his pre-arranged drug deal, could he? It wouldn’t be smart, because even if they don’t see any of the drug-taking part, they’ll take pictures of him going in and out of some lady’s house in the late hours of night and Harry will have to add cheater on top of the long list of all the reasons the public already has to hate him. 

So, he angrily flicks on his blinker to turn the direction of home, and he calls Reese like he should’ve done in the first place.

“Hey, Harry. What’s up?”

He swallows thickly and adjusts his hold on the steering wheel. While he’s on the phone with Reese, Zayn is undoubtedly on the phone with Louis. One fire at a time, though. “I’m just going to keep calling you until I stop having the urge to do something stupid. I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course it is. That’s why I’m here.”

He talks to her for the ten minutes it takes to get home. He’s only just finished detailing every last nasty thing he said to Zayn when he pulls up to the house, and the car that was behind him is slowly driving by, so he shuts up and quickly heads inside. Once he’s back into the safety of his own home, he kicks off his shoes, does his very best not to look at the sobriety chip on the counter, and continues the conversation. 

Louis’ sitting at the kitchen table when Harry walks in, and he already looks sad, so Harry knows that he was right in assuming Zayn called him. Between that and Louis hearing Harry on the phone with Reese -- Louis’ got the best head’s up that Harry could’ve given him. It’s always hard for Louis when all this just gets thrown at him, so Harry hopes that the forewarning lessens the intensity of the unavoidable conversation that they’re going to have tonight. 

With a nod to the living room, Harry motions that he’ll be in there, and Louis nods quickly, a small smile on his face. “That’s fine, love, go ahead,” he whispers, and Harry has to turn around to plant a kiss on the side of Louis’ head before he heads into the living room. 

For twenty-seven minutes, Reese and Harry talk. It’s always the same stuff: what happened, possible reasons for what led him to do what he did, how he can overcome the challenge if he faces it again, what he needs to remember, etc. It all feels sort of surface-level, even though they couldn’t be talking about more personal things. 

And then Reese’s kid gets out of bed, and she tells him over and over again that he doesn’t have to let her go, but he does anyway. It’s fine. She can’t fix anything that Harry broke tonight. That’s not how this works. 

It gives Harry whiplash, how fast his brain goes from _fuck you, fuck all of this, I can’t do this, this is never going to work, I should just give up_ to _okay, you have to keep trying, it’s not all that bad._ It’s nothing new, although it’s never quite reached these extreme levels before. It’s like -- he’s still wound up, he’s still itching for heroin, he’s still pissed off; there’s just now a thin blanket of awareness over it that motivates him. Objectively, he was an asshole. Objectively, it is his responsibility to fix that. And Harry has learned over the years that he needs to nurture that feeling for as long as he can, because it could disappear within seconds. 

As long as he has the willpower to be a decent human being, a kind, in-control person, then he has to take advantage of it before he’s launched back into a dark place. So, he takes a deep breath and texts Zayn. 

_I’m home. Sorry. I was stupid. I didn’t go over there with the intention of drinking or anything, I actually wanted to spend time with you. Again, I’m sorry. Please tell Michelle that I didn’t mean it and that dinner was lovely xxx._

A part of him wants to add something mean, like _and don’t act like you know anything about my therapist or call me manipulative again,_ but he doesn’t. He pushes that down. And maybe that’s the issue; he keeps pushing things down, letting them bottle up, and then he explodes. But sometimes he doesn’t have the emotional capacity for anything else, sometimes he can’t express things without being a jerk so he has to put it away while he still can, and it’s. . . it’s whatever. 

“You didn’t do anything stupid, did you?”

Harry glances up from his phone and sees Louis standing there, Bongo in his arms. He looks worn thin, which is understandable. Harry’s not the only one feeling the repercussions of this mess. 

“No,” he answers, suddenly meek. 

“You promise?”

“I promise.” And then, hesitantly, “I was going to, though. Like, I would’ve. Or I would’ve tried my best to. A pap was following me, though, so I just went home.”

Obviously, Louis doesn’t look particularly happy about that, but he doesn’t say anything. What’s there left to say? Instead, he comes over and sits down next to Harry, letting Bongo down in-between them. Harry scratches at his chin as Louis strokes down his back, and it’s nice to have a source of comfort that they can both draw from right now. 

“For the sake of honesty, Zayn told me what happened,” Louis says. “It was probably just the abridged version of it, but. I don’t know if I need to know the specifics to know that you obviously have some sources of pain that you aren’t managing.”

Harry snorts weakly. “‘Sources of pain?’ What does that even mean, Lou?”

“Insecurities,” Louis clarifies, and, well. Harry likes ‘sources of pain’ better after all. “I knew you didn’t like how your relationship with Zayn has faded, but I didn’t know you were _that t_ orn up over it. You need to be doing your best to remedy that, which is easy, okay, because Zayn loves you and will gladly talk to you if you want him to. But the -- the other bits, the stuff he was telling me about what you were saying about yourself. . . I need you to understand that you’re not a bad person, and I need you to take the appropriate steps to figure that out if you really think you’re bad. Because you’re not, Harry. You’re a really good person.”

“Zayn called me manipulative,” Harry says, only sort of defensively. “ _And_ he said I’m a liar.”

Louis bites on his lip briefly. “You have manipulated people, and you have lied. You’ve done both of those things, probably more than me or Zayn have. But you haven’t done that stuff in a really long time,” Harry doesn’t think about the Merlot in Italy, he absolutely doesn’t, “and I don’t think Zayn was saying that to make you feel like you’re a bad person, because again, you are the complete opposite of a bad person, love.”

“When I’m struggling, I’m a bad person. That’s, like, objective, Louis.”

Louis frowns at him. “That’s not true.”

“I told Zayn that I didn’t give a shit about his kid. The fuck kind of person says that, besides a really fucked up one?”

“Someone who is really, really hurt and going through a really, really tough time.”

“That’s such _bullshit,_ ” Harry starts, and he’s ready to keep going and going and going, but Louis reaches out, grabs his wrist, grounds him. The touch and his soft, _hey, hey, stay with me here_ is enough to get Harry’s eyes to water and the words to dissolve. 

“I don’t think everyone that is hurting is exempt from being called a bad person,” Louis says, and his thumb is stroking the inside of Harry’s wrist softly. “Obviously, there are some awful people out there who maybe have reason for being awful, and those people are still awful. But you’re not, Harry. I promise you. You’re a _good_ person. I don’t think you would’ve said anything other than that a few months ago, I think you would’ve agreed with me, so don’t -- don’t write yourself off for having some weak moments. You can’t be strong all the time.”

“I’m not strong _any_ of the time anymore,” Harry says pathetically with a sniffle, and Louis shakes his head. 

“That’s just not true. It’s not, babe.”

Harry says nothing, so Louis sighs and scoots closer, knocking into Bongo a little. The hand that comes to cup Harry’s neck is tender and warm, and Harry has the urge to push away from it and get closer to it at the same time. 

“Punishing yourself over and over again isn’t going to help. It’s just going to hurt yourself, right? You told me that once.”

Harry shrugs miserably. “Yeah. Think so. Probably stole it from someone else, though.”

“Probably,” Louis agrees with a short laugh. “Did you apologize to Zayn?”

Harry nods. “And Michelle.”

“Good, you needed to. But that was the right thing to do, right? That’s what a good person would’ve done.” 

There’s a period of silence. Harry mulls over the fact that Louis is unintentionally talking to him like a child, and Louis thinks about whatever it is that Louis thinks about to process all of this. 

Eventually, they go upstairs and get ready for bed. As Harry’s brushing his teeth next to Louis, he goes over the same mantra that he’s forced himself to every night before bed. _Today is over. Tomorrow is a new day with new challenges. You can beat those new challenges._ He’s repeating that in his head over and over again when Louis nudges his hip with his.

“Do you wanna go back to Doncaster?” he asks after leaning over to spit in the sink. He looks sincere, eyes trusting and open to the idea. “I would never say no to going back there for a bit. It’s up to you.”

“Can I think about it?” Harry asks, mouth muffled by the toothbrush. It’s tempting, honestly. He got through the worst time of his life there -- maybe it has good luck or something. But Louis wanted to stay here, they talked about that, talked about how it would be good for Louis’ songwriting that has suddenly been unheard of. They’ve fucked around on the piano and guitar before, and he’s seen Louis with his journal a few times, but there’s been no ventures to the studio with other people. He was talking about doing that, and he could -- Nick could have him hooked up with someone immediately -- and then Harry had to go and dive off the deep end and ruin Louis’ plans. So no. Harry probably won’t accept the offer of going to Doncaster, because this is Louis’ life, too. 

“Yeah, ‘course,” Louis answers, and Harry nods as if his mind isn’t made up already. In the long runs, it’ll probably be another thing that he did today that he regrets. 

-

For the next month, Harry continues to keep his head down as he attempts to rebuild his strength. There are shit parts to it, like exercising a ton and forcing himself to go to group therapy once a week on every Friday, even if he doesn’t think he needs it. On the contrast, he’s still having sex with Louis pretty much every night and smoking his head empty every day, two things he very much enjoys. The smoking, the sex, and the exercise are the only three things that can get the cravings out of his skin, and they’re right back they’re when he’s finished. In those moments of clarity, he tries to take advantage of them, tries to stay in the present. 

Ever since he had the cocaine, the cravings for heroin have been worse, the thoughts constant, which. . . some days are better than others. That’s all there really is to say about that. Some days, he can breathe and others, he ends up throwing up in the backyard with his vigorous attempts in sweating out the urges. 

It’s gotten bad before, obviously. This isn’t the first time he’s struggling like this; now, though, he’s on a long break and he had cocaine in his system two months ago. Both of those things change his relationship with sobriety, and neither for the better. Nick has tried to get Harry to keep busy, but Harry keeps blowing him off. He doesn’t want a repeat of Italy, or of Aaron, who still lives in his phone no matter how many nights it keeps him awake. And songwriting is just not working, because the only thing on Harry’s mind is heroin, and he refuses to personify his addiction and give it more power than it already has, so it’s not like there’s going to be an album any time soon. 

There’s one night in particular that Harry is back at the kitchen table, re-writing that list for the millionth time. As always, Louis is on the top of the things that he could’ve lost, and as he writes it, he glances up at Louis, who’s washing off lettuce in the sink. And it’s -- something comes over Harry, then, and he says, “Hey, Lou? Could you, like. Could you just tell me why you left me again?”

Louis tenses, and it takes him a full ten seconds to turn around. When he does, he looks uncomfortable. Quickly, Harry says, “No, no, not like that. I’m not mad, I’m not -- I’m not looking for a fight, or something. I just think it will be good for me to hear it. If you can, that is.”

So, Louis comes and sits next to him and walks him through what he was thinking. He goes through the last straws, like their wedding constantly being pushed off and Harry’s reckless behavior and the constant fear. It was soul-crushing, Louis says, to have to constantly be scared for Harry’s life. When he had some distance from it, he says it actually got better, that pain. Louis says that he genuinely thought Harry was beyond help at that point, and he couldn’t watch him die. He says he just couldn’t do it. 

There had been a time, a long time ago, that someone in group called Louis a dick for leaving Harry. She said that it wasn’t fair, Louis leaving his partner in arguably the greatest time of need. And Harry disagreed vehemently; yeah, the idea that it could happen again plagues him, and it sent him even further into his addiction when it happened, but Louis had every right to leave. He _should have_ left. It was Louis’ sanity versus staying by Harry’s side and watching him burn himself to the ground. Harry couldn’t be mad at him for choosing himself, when that was what he was doing over and over again. Choosing himself over Louis, choosing heroin over Louis, his career. Harry is still hurt by it, but he won’t ever place blame on anyone other than himself. 

In the end, though, maybe Harry didn’t need to hear all that, because it cut deeper than he had expected it to. 

Today, he wakes up in a shit mood. Like, beyond horrid -- murder-worthy, honestly -- so he forces himself to go back to sleep. He tucks himself in tightly behind Louis, who is still asleep but wakes up from Harry’s grip. 

“Morning,” Louis mumbles, and Harry shakes his head. 

“No, go back to bed. We’re sleeping. Sleep.”

And Louis does. The next time Harry wakes up, he still feels a little rotten and his mouth tastes horrible from smoking after he brushed his teeth last night, so he gets out of bed to brush his teeth. When he comes back, Louis is sitting up in bed with his phone in his hand. 

Harry doesn’t even have to say anything for Louis to make grabby hands at him and say, “Come here, grumpy.” Harry crawls back into bed and tucks his nose against Louis’ rib cage, and it eventually turns to sex like everything pretty much does -- something that Harry is _not_ complaining about. And it does put him in a better mood, actually, and ever since, he’s been lounging in the living room, doing his best to relax. 

It’s a decent day overall, up until 2:49 p.m. when Louis’ phone lights up next to Harry on the couch. He glances at it, barely interested, and when he sees Nick’s name on the screen, he groans. 

“Why has Nick been ignoring me all day but is texting you?” Harry calls out, because Louis’ in the kitchen making them a plate of food despite Harry offering to get up to help. Louis laughs, says that he doesn’t know, and to check. 

“He says he’s stopping by later to drop off some mail, and not to tell me so I don’t pretend to be busy to avoid him,” Harry says, reading it with a snort. The only line of defense he’d have against an unwanted Nick-visit would be if he was napping, which -- actually, that _is_ something he would do, but he doesn’t feel like doing that tonight, so Nick must be lucky. 

When he catches the bottom of the message that reads, _No I get it, it’s alright x_ , Harry barely thinks twice about it as he scrolls up a little to see what the conversation is about. Neither of them have ever had any problems with the other going through their phone; not in a weird way, but to check the clock or the calendar or to text someone back for the other. It’s never been anything they fussed over. 

He does, however, get the feeling that he wasn’t supposed to see the conversation between Nick and Louis from four days ago. 

Nick: _Hey, a band with a decent following is writing their second album in malibu. They’re looking around for some new writers to work with -- sounds like ur kind of deal._

Louis: _Does it have to be in cali?_

Nick: _Yeah, sounds like it. They’re going for a “vibe”_

Louis: _Then no thx. Not making Harry fly out to cali or making him stay by himself here. Thanks tho, really_

Nick: _He could do with a change of scenery dont u think? Went from being in a different country every other night to staying in London all day_

Louis: _I’ve told you that he’s rocky right now. Still -- it wasn’t just that one time in Milan. He needs stability right now_

Louis: _Sorry mate, just not a good time._

Nick: _No I get it, it’s alright x_

Shame rips through Harry as he bites down on his lip. He rejected the offer of going to Doncaster because he thought that was enough to keep Louis’ dreams alive, but clearly, that decision wasn’t as selfless as he thought it was. Still, Louis is sacrificing things to keep Harry afloat. Louis would probably say that it’s alright, that it’ll only last as long as Harry’s period of struggle does, and yet that isn’t enough. It’s not. It’s not fair that Louis can’t leap at opportunities that he wants to because Harry is doing poorly. 

What makes it even worse, though, is that Louis was right to say no. Harry _does_ need stability right now, because nothing is stable inside of his own head. He’d get motion sickness if everything around him was different, too. And the last time he was in California, he would have used if Aaron had some on him. If he were to go back, there’s nothing stopping him from going over to Aaron’s and doing just that. 

It shouldn’t be news that he’s a burden. (And Louis wouldn’t want him saying that. _That’s not true, you aren’t; your pain isn’t a burden_.) To him, it feels as though he’s _objectively_ a burden on Louis right now. Not always, but right now, yeah. He is. And he has no idea if everyone finds it as easy to fall into self-depreciation as he does, if that’s something everyone else has to actively fight against. However, he does know that most people’s reaction to finding out another negative consequence of their addiction wouldn’t be to _burn_ with the want for what they’re addicted to. 

The angrier he gets, the sadder he feels, the further the defeat sets in -- all of that strengthens the urge to run back to heroin. It’s ass backwards, probably, but it’s not hard to understand why. Heroin was his one and only coping mechanism for a decade. That default-setting wasn’t reset at rehab, or during any of the years after. 

Louis comes back to the couch with two sandwiches stacked on a plate, and Harry forces himself to close out of the messages and smile at him. He won’t bring it up, because there’s no point in having a conversation when he knows exactly how it’ll play out. 

“Thanks,” Harry says. 

Louis nods at him. “Not a problem, love.”

-

It’d be fair to say that it’s guilt that ends them up in Los Angeles two and a half weeks later. _Technically,_ it’s because Lottie is having a launch party for her new makeup line. That’s what brings them to L.A., but guilt and determination is what gets Harry to convince them to stay planted in California for a bit. Just a little while, he says. Harry even gets Nick to vouch for the idea, because Nick has never been one to turn down a vacation to California. He can tag along, Harry doesn’t mind. 

In the end, they agree to stay for a month, and Harry is relaxed by that. A month? He can keep his head on straight for a month, and in the meantime, Louis can go out to studios and do what he wants to do. 

It’d also be fair to say that Harry is intentionally setting himself up for failure. Self-sabotage concealed by a selfless act, Dr. Schnell would probably say. And about Harry’s ability to simply ignore that truth, completely pretend like it doesn’t exist -- Harry doesn’t know what Dr. Schnell would have to say about that, and he doesn’t really care. 

(Louis’ been unrelenting with asking him to see Dr. Schnell again, so now Harry catches himself thinking about him constantly.)

It’s a party. In LA. He’s trusting himself at a party in LA, and that’s all he has to say, honestly. It could end right here, case closed, throw in the towel. There’s nothing else to say, because as he walks into the club, he thinks _this didn’t go over well last time, I’m further into that same dark rut, and here I am, back again_. He’s pretending to strictly care about his husband’s business ventures because he wants alcohol, and it’s not that he’s given up on his sobriety, it’s just -- 

It’s just that he’s sick of thinking or caring, and it doesn’t have to more fucking complex than that. He’ll keep testing the waters for as long as it takes for Louis to stop letting him, because Harry would be a liar if he said that the number one reason he has stayed sober is Louis. He _has_ told that lie before -- it’s for himself, for his health, such _bullshit._ He was warned from the start not to depend his sobriety on someone else, and he did it anyway, so the _minute_ Louis won’t notice that he’s gone -- because again, it’s just about Louis at this point -- Harry locks himself in a bathroom stall with a flask he borrowed, and he drinks. 

(It’ll take four hours for his mindset to do another complete one-eighty. Imagine how exhausting it is to be the one living in this cold, confusing land of purgatory. Half-sober, half-not. Half-determined, half-given up. Half the time angry, half the time so fucking sad, and one-hundred percent of the time tired. No matter what, at the end of the day, he’s spent.)

He only gulps down a quarter of it, painfully aware of the paparazzi outside. He can’t get shitfaced, no matter how much he really, really, _really_ wants to. When he caps it, though, officially cutting himself off, he tucks it in his coat pocket and immediately, he pulls it back out, promising himself only one more sip, just one. 

He goes through it again, and before he can repeat it for the third time, Louis texts him. _Lotts is about to do her speech thingy if you’re in the loo x_. 

Harry straightens up, shoves the flash away for good, and leaves the bathroom. After he slips the flask back to the person that he got it from, he heads to the bar. There, only after he’s ordered himself a virgin fruity drink that’ll be his best shot at masking the alcohol in his breath, he texts Louis back. _At the bar, you still at the front? Xx_. Nick is here somewhere, but he’s probably deep into the crowd, flirting with some boy. Harry doesn’t have to worry about being caught by him. 

_Yea hold on ill come to you._

Harry curses, glancing at the person mixing his drink, and he’s about to ask her to hurry up when she slides it over to him. He orders another after he knocks back this one, swishes it around in his mouth a bit, and she listens obediently, even though she’s probably wondering what his deal is. A celebrity knocking back non-alcoholic drinks probably won’t be the weirdest thing she sees tonight. 

And then a hand comes to rest on his lower back, and Harry has to calm down if he doesn’t want to blow his cover. One deep breath and long blink later, he turns to Louis and gives him a smile. 

Maybe it hurt so much to be called a liar and a manipulator because it was true. He is those things when he’s seeking out the things that make him that way, and he hates that he’s stepped back into this version of himself so easily. (Easily, as if he didn’t fight against this for months. He started dragging his feet in his sobriety after tour, and it’s been over seven months since then. He fought as hard as he could for as long as he was able to.)

Warm and sated, Harry listens to Lottie give her speech. She’s nervous, at first, but her eyes stay glued on Louis and she pushes through. At the end when Harry goes to whistle, he realizes he’s a tiny bit drunk, so that’s the last thing he’ll do to draw attention to himself tonight. 

The time that he recognizes that he, once again, screwed up royally comes when they’re on their way home. They’ve just dropped Lottie off at a friend’s, and Louis’ driving, and the pit of sadness keeps growing and growing inside of Harry’s stomach. It’s like he forgot how to do all this stuff without feeling bad for it afterwards, and until he either learns how to stop doing stupid shit or learns to stop feeling remorseful for said stupid shit, then they’re both just going to stay caught in this horrible cycle. 

Harry wasn’t perfect for five years, but he was okay. He was _decent_. The moments that _were_ bad don’t compare to the ever-growing collection of the things Harry keeps putting himself through, the positions he’s sitting himself in. It’s driving him _mad_ , and the way that he’ll probably find himself doing a similar thing in a week or two makes him never want to try at anything again. 

They’re at the stage where the secret comes out, that he gives into the remorse and explodes with his sadness. He puts himself in a compromising position, fucks up, gets sad, apologizes, and then goes through it all over it again. 

“Louis,” he says, voice so weak that it doesn’t even sound like a word. Louis glances at him, and he’s already frowning by the time Harry puts his face in his hands and says, “I drank tonight.”

There’s a faint, “Oh, Christ, go around me, then, fucker,” after the car jolts a bit, and then there’s silence. There’s no immediate words of consolation or fear tactics -- no anger, either, so maybe he should just be grateful for that. For the first time in forever, it feels like Louis is at a loss of words, and Harry tries to find some for the both of them. 

“Saying I’m sorry at this point is useless, but I’m -- I really am. I’m sorry.”

A sigh, and then a toneless, “When? At the bar? When I was right next to you, did you -- ”

“No,” Harry quickly denies. He still won’t take his hands away from his face. “No, no. In the bathroom.”

Louis scoffs and is silent again. This time, it lasts a few seconds longer than the first. The disappointment Louis feels can’t be easy to cope with. Slowly, he’s remembering what it’s like to be in love with someone who constantly gives you a reason not to be. “Can we talk about this at home?” Louis asks, tears in his voice. Harry looks at him immediately, and sure enough, there are tears running down his cheeks. Louis laughs quietly as he wipes them away, and Harry stares helplessly. “Can’t drive as it is, can’t just throw this on me if you want to make it home in one piece.”

So, the rest of the drive is silent, and then they’re home. Then comes the talk, and the tears, and the self-depreciation, and the empty platitudes. Followed by the cuddles and the kisses that turn to sex and a long night staring at the ceiling. 

_Just stop doing this,_ he thinks. _Just stop it, and you won’t have to keep disappointing him. It’s that simple. Just stop. Please, please, please, just stop it._

-


	2. chapter two

-

That was strike one. Strike two comes only six days later. 

There were some heated discussions about going back to London or even Doncaster, but Harry fought to stay here in LA. For Louis, mostly, because the minute Harry proves himself, Louis should feel comfortable going out for a songwriting session. He doesn’t tell that part to Louis, obviously, but Louis agrees to stay anyway after Harry promises that he’ll think about looking into NA meetings around here. 

They decide that in the meantime, it might do Harry good to start socializing with some of his friends in small doses and in places that don’t have any temptations. Clearly, Harry’s method of rarely leaving the house isn’t very effective, so he agrees to go out on a double-date with Louis, Jeff and Glenne. 

Harry’s just relieved that Jeff has never been the type of friend to ask about his addiction often. He would never turn Harry away if he came to him for help, though. Jeff’s made sure to tell Harry that over the years. 

It’s actually a good time. It’s not miserably hot out, so they take a table outside and have lunch at a fancy restaurant that doesn’t have alcohol on the menu until dinner. Jeff and Glenne talk about their wedding plans, and it only hurts a little when Louis keeps the conversation going by talking about what their wedding looked like. There’s no talk of Harry’s upcoming career adventures that are still TBD, or of his addiction, or of anything like that. Somehow, the entire time, the only thing Harry has to worry about is himself and the constant stream of thoughts inside of his head. 

No, the trouble comes later. Fourteen hours later, in fact. Because Harry can’t just have a nice lunch with his friends, can’t come home and spend the day with his husband in bed -- it can’t be that easy. Ever. And at two in the morning with Louis sound asleep beside him, Harry finally runs into the catch. The ‘today was a nice day, but.’ 

Apparently, there was a pap taking pictures that the four of them somehow didn’t spot. Intimate moments of Harry’s private life -- Louis kissing his cheek, Harry’s hand firm on Louis’ thigh, Jeff and Glenne beaming at each other, all of them laughing at a joke -- are now splattered across the internet. 

It’s not even that bad. The pictures, that is. They all look fine, no embarrassing moments captured. It’s more than that, it’s the invasion of privacy, the paranoia surrounding the fact that no matter how many times he looks around, he’ll miss some wandering eyes, the reminder that people care about him still. _So_ many people _care_ about _him_. If he were to get caught using again, or God forbid sent back to rehab or _die_ \-- people would _care_. That would be _news_. They’d be disappointed and ashamed and sad, and Harry -- he _swears_ he used to make people happy. Surely, all those smiling faces in the crowds at shows haven’t already disappeared, yet somehow, he can’t picture them. 

No, but he can remember Nick’s shock and Zayn’s anger and Louis’ disappointment. He can remember Reese’s silence and the group’s questioning glances. 

With tears burning his eyes and shame wrapped tightly around his skin, Harry gets out of bed, grabs the car keys, and pulls out his phone. 

_Hey, Aaron. Hey, mate. It’s me. It’s Harry. Could you just, um. Can you give me a call back? I’m in a town._

-

For whatever reason, Aaron doesn’t give him a call back. Harry officially gives up on calling him after the third call in the same hour, so instead of getting numbingly high, he gets blindingly drunk instead. 

At five minutes until three, he pulls into the parking lot of a studio that’s somehow always open. It won’t be busy, nobody will question why he’s here, and from what Harry remembers, they have a stash of wickedly tasty, expensive alcohol in one of the recording rooms that is free to certain artists. Harry is one of those artists. 

He drinks, and he drinks, and he drinks. For an hour straight, he binge-drinks worse than he has in probably his entire life, and it plugs just all the right holes so that all he can feel is nothing, and not a bit more. No remorse or regret, not about thirty-percent of his legs -- nothing. 

It’s four-fifteen when Harry stumbles through the hallways of the studio and out the door. He trips over the curb block, and he would’ve fallen flat on his face if he didn’t have his car to fall against. He laughs, a slow, tired sound, and pulls himself inside. 

Once sat down, he puts his seat belt on and puts his keys in the ignition, both taking far too many times. It’s not funny, so he doesn’t know why these small little laughs keep bubbling out of his dry, swollen lips. 

He turns on his car, puts his hand on the gear stick, and almost -- _almost_ \-- starts to drive. 

Something hits him. He has no idea what the source of hesitance is, but it comes at him strong and fast, and he knows he can’t ignore it. Despite not knowing what ‘it’ exactly is, it has him pulling out his phone and calling Nick. He considers calling Louis, but he was all soft and cuddly in bed only a few hours ago. He should sleep, he needs the rest. 

“Harry,” Nick answers. “I’m too tired for your middle of the night epiphanies. You could just, like, text me them, you know. Like normal people.”

Harry blinks slowly, a headache suddenly blooming at the base of his skull. “It’s no -- no epiphanies,” Harry says, tongue too thick and slippery for his mouth to properly shape the words. “None of that, no -- no -- mmm, I’m drunk.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you fucking are. _Clearly._ Where are you?”

“Uhh, Rick’s studio. The one that we -- hey, I think I had sex in here with Louis once.”

“Louis’ going to _murder_ you,” Nick seethes. “ _I’m_ going to murder you. And that better not be your fucking engine on in the background.”

“‘S not,” Harry hums, reaching to turn his keys out of the ignition. He tosses them onto the passenger's seat, watches them fall to the floor. As he tilts his heavy head back against the seat, he says, “Not allowed to be mad at me.”

Nick snorts. “Really, is that so? Why not?”

“Just not. ‘S the. . . the rules or something. ‘M the boss, right? Of -- of something.”

“Seriously, Harry, do you know how much you had to drink? You said so out of it right now that it’s not even funny.” He doesn’t sound angry anymore, just upset and tired. Harry’s tired, too. He’s pretty sure Louis is as well. Everyone’s just so tired. 

“Just a little bit,” he says, and he doesn’t even know why. 

Nick blows out a deep breath. “I hate you. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes to pick you up, okay? And I’m bringing a friend so your car isn’t stuck there all night. Just hang tight. Please.”

This was probably not what Nick had planned to be doing when he agreed to come to Los Angeles with Harry and Louis for a month.

As Harry waits, his mind tries to drift, but it’s blissfully stuck in one place, too heavy to move. Or maybe it’s the exact opposite, because Harry feels floaty, like he’s not weighed down by anything and his brain is too light to stay on one thought. Whatever it is, it’s a nice change of pace, and it gets him to fall asleep quicker than he has in ages. 

A pounding fist on the window is what wakes him. He jolts away from the sound, startled, and Nick is standing there, all grumpy and tired looking. Harry unlocks the door, and as Nick helps him out, Harry slurs, “‘M tired, too, Nick.” 

“I know, kid. I know.”

It’s a process getting him to the car, one that ends up taking two people, because Harry is dead weight. Can’t even hold himself up, which would be worrying, if he could have a care in the world right now. He can’t. Nothing matters, nothing’s real, pain is stalled. When they get him inside of the car, he’s buckled in like a child, and then the door is slammed shut, leaving him alone with a very angry Nick. 

Harry reaches for the radio, and Nick slaps his hand away. 

There should be a lot of things going through his mind right now, probably. There should be concern for how this is going to affect Louis, if anybody saw him, the impact this will have on his relationship with sobriety. He should be thinking that all too familiar: _fuck, I fucked up, and now I have to apologize_. Now would be the normal time that he would start choking up and thinking about tomorrow and calling Reese. Time and time again, that’s what he’s encountered, that period or regret and remorse: after Italy, after the fashion show, after he got that dealer’s number, after Lottie’s launch party -- there was always the part where he had to confront what he did, either by himself or with someone else, and right now, he just doesn’t have to do that. He’s too drunk to care about anything, too drunk to even really know that he _should_ care. And sure, that period of regret will come when he sobers up, but that’s not a present problem. 

If he stays intoxicated, he won’t have to worry about the things that he obsesses over when he’s sober. 

Nick gets him home far sooner than Harry is ready for, because even though he’s drunk and barely thinking properly, there’s some inkling in the back of his head telling him that he _probably_ should feel guilty, like how it told him that he _probably_ shouldn’t drive. 

“Just don’t be loud, okay?” Nick tells him as he helps him out of the car. “I don’t want Louis to have to talk to you until you’re sober. Just, we’ll get you to the couch, you can sleep it off, and then we can deal with the rest tomorrow.”

Ant that would be great, and it would’ve worked, in theory, if either of them noticed Bongo _before_ he got between Harry’s legs. Harry loses his balance even worse, Nick doesn't expect it, and Harry falls forward. In an attempt to prevent himself from falling face-down, he reaches out for the stool, and all it does is cause it to come falling down with him. 

It causes a huge noise. Bongo runs off. Nick curses. Harry groans and lays his face against the cool tile, content with staying on the ground. And then there’s the noise of the steps, and then a light switches on, and Harry’s closes his eyes. 

“Harry?”

Nick scoffs. “Louis, Christ, if you hear a random noise at four in the morning, maybe _don’t_ come down by yourself to check it out.”

“I assumed it was him because he wasn’t in bed.” 

Harry’s head is already spinning, and his knees and forearms are sore from how he fell, and all of it gets a million times worse when Louis’ feet and ankles appear in Harry’s sight, even though he thought he shut his eyes. 

“Are you really going to make me ask what’s going on?” Louis asks sharply, and Harry shuts his eyes, for real this time. 

“He’s, um. He went out and got -- ”

“ _High?_ ” Louis sounds panicked, voice airy and high, and Harry desperately tries to cling to his apathy. He’s drunk as shit, but maybe not so drunk to the point that he doesn’t instinctively feel pain at the sound of it in his husband’s voice. 

“No, no,” Nick says quickly. “No, not high, just. . . really, really drunk.”

He should probably apologize. Really, he should. But ages pass and the silence lingers, and he doesn’t have the energy to break it. It doesn’t matter. Sorry is back to not meaning anything. Maybe if he just closes his eyes long enough, he can fall asleep here and this mess will be effectively pushed off to a later date. 

He has no idea how long it takes for Louis to whisper, “Come on, Harry. Get up. Let’s just go to bed.”

“Couch,” Nick corrects. And then, “He’s not going to make it up those stairs.”

There’s another beat of silence, silence that should be filled by Harry. He just doesn’t say anything, because there’s nothing to be said. Really, there isn’t.

“Harry,” Louis says, voice thinning. “Get up.”

“In a few minutes,” Harry slurs, and Louis laughs, this awful, angry sound. 

“Jesus Christ, _listen_ to you. Get _up_.” 

Harry stays put. 

“ _Get up_ ,” Louis repeats, louder this time. “God _fucking_ dammit, Harry, _get up_.”

“Okay, okay,” Nick says quietly, soothingly. He steps forward and then arms are looping around Harry’s underarms, awkwardly pulling him up. The motion makes the room spin, and Harry’s arm darts out to try and steady himself, his leg jolts out to try and find its footing. He cries out, for some reason, he doesn’t know if it’s from panic or embarrassment or because of how sick he feels; the noise is enough to get Louis to hurry over and help Nick get him up, and Harry clings to him, clings to the warmth and the touch and the stability. 

“Okay, okay,” Louis is saying. “Okay, come on, you’re alright.” 

Somehow, they make it to the couch, and when they sit him down, the room rolls around yet again and a wave of nausea hits him the hardest yet. He closes his eyes, swallows thickly, goes with the hands that push him down into the pillows. It takes forever for the nausea to give, and by the time it does, Harry’s hand is resting on his sweaty forehead and Louis has a puke bucket in front of him on the floor. 

“I haven’t seen him like this in so fucking long,” Louis whispers, bending down to be level with Harry. He sets his hand on the back of his neck, brushes through the sweaty strands there. He sighs, long and drawn out. 

“I know,” Nick says, and he sounds sad, too. Harry keeps his eyes close, because he’s hoping that this will all be a blur tomorrow and he doesn’t want to risk remembering their faces. “Brings up, like. Bad shit. Makes me feel, like, like -- weird, I don’t know.”

“Like you’re reliving a traumatic event. I know.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that.”

“I think that’s how he feels all the time,” Louis says quietly. His fingers stop moving against Harry’s neck and just rest there, a steady pressure. “You can stay the night, if you want. I’ll be up anyways to keep an eye on him.”

“Please,” Nick says with a snort, but it sounds off. “I don’t know if I want to be around for the hangover tomorrow. He’s going to be the devil.”

“Nah. I think he’ll just be even more depressed, honestly. This is. . . Nick, this is going to hit him hard. I don’t know if he can come back from this.”

“He has to,” Nick says. “He won’t -- he will. He has to. Before all this stuff happened, he was fuckin’ so happy, Louis. _So_ happy. He can get back to that. This isn’t, like, the beginning of the end or some shit. This could be the end of this shit show, if he tries hard enough.”

“It’s not about him not trying, though. It’s. . . it’s about him not being able to take it all right now. Reese thinks he’s depressed, which is making him more vulnerable to all this, but he won’t go and see his therapist, so we don’t really know.”

“Well, we need to figure it out.”

“I know,” Louis whispers. “I know.”

And Harry must’ve fallen asleep, because he doesn’t remember anything past that. He remembers up until that point, and then it all fades to black. The memories are in bits and pieces, of course, the voices sounding faded and distant, but he can recall the gist of it without too many holes. And it would’ve been better if he didn’t, because when he wakes up to a raging headache and vomit spewing out of his mouth, he doesn’t need to be plagued by those memories, too. The sad words Nick and Louis whispered to each other don’t need to be ringing in his head. He doesn’t fucking need that on top of everything else. He should’ve fucking drank more so he could remember less. 

“Let it out, come on, it’s okay.”

It doesn’t _feel_ very okay. Harry’s hot and drenched in sweat, and his throat is on fucking _fire,_ and he’s puking into a pot that they’ll have to throw out after this. It _feels_ like he just woke up from a deep sleep to face the reality that last night, he got outrageously mad over something stupid, made an awful decision because of it, and that decision has now wound him up in terrible position with no way out -- and that’s, like, the opposite of fucking okay. Nothing about this is fucking okay. 

As soon as he stops throwing up, the urge to push Louis away is overwhelming and strong and scary, it’s _terrifying,_ and then he’s fucking doing it, he’s pulling away from Louis’ touch and saying, “I just need to be alone right now, I need to be fucking alone, give me some space, I need -- I need to be alone, I need to fucking figure this out, I need -- I need -- ”

“Okay, _okay_ , hey.” Louis reaches over to grab Harry’s chin, makes him look him in the eye. “I love you, and we’re going to figure this out. If you need to be alone right now, I can go. We’re a team, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Harry whispers, and his voice is all wobbly and broken. Louis does leave, surprisingly, and then it’s just Harry in the living room all by himself, listening to Nick say, “I _told_ you he’d be awful this morning.”

“Okay,” Harry whispers to himself, leaning back against the couch. He sets his hands on his forehead and tries to think. “Okay. Okay. This is -- this is okay.”

He should probably call Reese, but he absolutely won’t. That thought doesn’t even stick, as if it doesn’t make sense, as if it isn’t something that should even be considered. He could call, like. . . Blake or someone, but yeah, sure, let him just go and potentially trigger his friend because he acted like an impulsive idiot. 

( _It wasn’t heroin, it wasn’t heroin, it wasn’t heroin, you’re okay, it wasn’t heroin._ )

He sits there for maybe ten minutes, searching his brain for what to do next. The last time he fucked up this hugely, they were in Doncaster and Harry was fresh from rehab. What did he do then? He threw up a bunch, shouted and cried a lot, and sat around until he felt better. Pretty much, that’s all that happened. 

( _Reese was right, they were all right, you never actually learned how to fucking handle this. You just faked it, you fucking faked your way through all of this._ )

After the Merlot wine, he went straight to bed and tried his best to forget about it. After Aaron, he went on like nothing happened. After the coke and pills, he cried about it and called his sponsor and nothing got better. 

( _But you never healed from all of that, look at the guilt you’re carrying around; of course you’re not getting better if you’re not working through this shit as you go.)_

He went to group, he exercised, he took care of himself the best he could, and he still managed to get here. So, really, he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do next. Keep trying, just to keep failing? He’s never faced failure like this before, and he doesn’t know what to do. He’s so sick and tired of confronting the fact that there’s no exact routine that he can follow to stay on track. 

All he knows is that he wants to crawl into bed and ignore this, so that’s what he does. He gets up, heads to the room, gets stopped by Louis who demands that he take a water bottle with him -- _“and actually drink it, please, I’m serious”_ \-- and then he goes upstairs, gets under the covers, and just lies there. 

And, well. This is his last defense against everything. It’s a lame version of a coping method, but it’s the only one he has. 

-

Harry and Louis don’t talk about it. Not properly, but they do have a few screaming-matches about it over the course of a couple of days. 

“We’re not staying in LA, not when you’re doing worse here than you have anywhere else,” Louis shouted, pleaded, begged. “Let’s just go _home._ Let’s -- let’s go to Doncaster, Harry, let’s go _anywhere_ else but here.”

“No. I’m not leaving.”

“Yes, we are. 

“ _You_ can go,” Harry spat. “You can go, just like you did before, but I’m fucking staying here.”

That one was awful, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the one that involved Harry and Louis shouting at each other through the bathroom door because Harry was having a fucking meltdown in the bathroom and he wouldn’t let Louis in. 

“Do you not realize how _powerless_ you make me feel? How much fucking _guilt_ I have over this? I can’t lose you again, I _can’t_.” Louis was crying, they both were, and Harry didn’t even process the words because all he could think about was the fact that _he_ was getting yelled at and _he_ was crying. 

“I don’t need another fucking reason to be mad at myself,” Harry screamed back. “I can’t -- I can’t deal with your shit, too, Louis. I can’t fucking do that right now, so don’t fucking ask me too.”

Louis went quiet after that, reduced to infrequent sobs, and Harry had to get up off the floor and go out and comfort him, _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_. 

Harry and Reese don’t talk about it, either. 

Harry refuses to call her, because he can’t sit there and explain to her how he messed up again. There’s no _point._ She’s there to help him, and he’s gone to her several times, and he wouldn’t exactly describe himself as _helped_. After one of the bigger arguments, Louis had had enough, grabbed Harry’s phone, and called Reese for him, thinking that was all that Harry was afraid of, having to call her. He was wrong, and then they sat there in the living room for thirty minutes. Louis talked to Reese, told her what happened, and Harry sat there, silent. He was ignoring what Reese was saying, but he doesn’t know how helpful it could have been with him thinking _yeah, right, I’ve heard all of this before, same old fucking bullshit_.

“Louis,” Reese said towards the end of the call. “I think the one thing we have to understand about addicts is they won’t get better if they don’t want to help themselves. We can’t force them to care, and if they don’t care, they won’t get better. It’s not your fault.”

At that point, Harry stood up and left the room. It was supposed to be defiant, but after he sat down in the family room, he realized that all he did was prove her point: he won’t help himself. Maybe it’s not that simple, and maybe there’s some deep-rooted, psychological reasoning behind it, but he wouldn’t fucking know, would he, because he won’t make himself a therapy appointment. 

Harry _does_ talk about it with his mum, which -- she called randomly, he picked up in a pissy mood, and immediately, he dropped this bombshell on her and hung up and left her alone to deal with it. He regretted it _instantly,_ the _second_ after he said the words, _yeah, well, Mum, I got shitfaced the other night, so maybe you should be worried,_ because his mum barely understands any of this and now he’s put it in her head that she has to be afraid that he’s going to die again. 

“I haven’t heard from you in a while. I wish you’d call more, baby. Makes me worried.” That’s all she said, and Harry went off on her like he had every right to. 

After he hung up, after he realized what he just did to his own bloody _mother_ , he cried and cried and cried and cried. Not like that’s anything special, because really, it’s all he does, but it was -- it was _intense_. He cried so hard that he felt sick, cried so hard that he accepted Louis’ comfort, cried so hard into his chest and spewed out shitty apologies. _I don’t know why I’m like this_ and _this is what I meant, it’s_ me, I’m _the awful one, it’s not just when I’m high_ and _I’m so fucking humiliated, Louis, I’m just so fucking embarrassed of myself_. 

And, eventually, he does talk about it with Nick, because Nick texts him things like, _Harry, mate, Louis would feel a ton better if you would just call me. Or anyone. He thinks you’ve shut down._ The text that makes Harry give in and call him is, _Alright mate I think Louis is genuinely starting to think about arranging some sort of intervention, you better start showing him some signs of life._

“You called,” is how Nick answers, and Harry rolls his eyes, stares up at the ceiling. He’s in the living room with Louis, their legs tangled up together on the couch even though they’ve barely spoken all day. 

“You answered.”

Louis glances at him, and he seems surprised that he’s actually talking to someone that isn’t him. Harry didn’t realize how worried Louis was about him. 

“Well, yeah. Sort of my job to.”

He tries to think about what the people at rehab or those books he had to read would have suggested for him to say, because apparently that’s what he’s resorted back to. “Well, um.” His fingers fidget in his lap nervously. “I guess this is where I, like, thank you. For picking me up that night. For not letting me drive home drunk.”

“And I guess this is where I thank _you_ for having enough sense to not let yourself drive home. And for not doing it again.”

Harry scoffs. “Please. Like that’s worth anything.”

“It is. It is, Harry. It’s been eleven days, and I know you’ve felt worse during this past week and a half than you have in a long time, which is a testament to how hard you’re trying to stay sober.”

Harry’s quiet for a second, because that’s. . . “We’re back to counting the days now, then?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. “Eleven days, you think that’s supposed to mean something to me? Compared to _five years?_ ”

“You’ve been sober from heroin for five years,” Nick says calmly. “You haven’t taken that away from yourself. But yeah, you’ve been sober from alcohol for eleven, and I think that’s an important distinction to make.”

“I’m not an alcoholic.” 

“This isn’t going to work if you keep lying to yourself. You’ve done it for five years, mate, and now it’s biting you in the ass, so don’t -- stop repeating your mistakes. You’re an alcoholic. I mean, I’m no professional, but in my non-professional opinion, you’re also an alcoholic. There’s no shame in that. There _is_ shame in repeatedly telling yourself a lie that is hurting you.”

“I think I actually hate you,” Harry mumbles, and he doesn’t say anything else. He refuses to acknowledge anything Nick just said to him. 

“Back at you, you little shit,” Nick says. “But no, mate, seriously. Like. I just. . . I just need to take this time to remind you that, like -- if you do find yourself in a position where you’re about to relapse, where you’re about to use heroin again -- ”

“Nick -- ”

“No, hey, let me finish.”

Harry bites down on his lip and stays silent. 

“If you do, okay, I need to remind you that you need to use a clean needle, okay, and you need to be careful of where you’re injecting it into. Be careful, right? You can’t just do it anywhere. And _do not_ , and I mean it, _do not_ talk yourself into taking more than you know you can handle. You would be high as a kite if you took even a fourth of what you used to, so don’t -- _don’t,_ okay? And don’t be stupid; if you don’t feel it right away, that doesn’t mean you take more, that means you wait. If you feel sick, if your heart starts to feel funny, if you get really tired -- you _call_ someone, and you _do not_ fall asleep. You hear me? _Do not_ let yourself fall asleep. Don’t even shut your fucking eyes, got it?”

“Yeah,” Harry replies numbly. “Yeah, I got it.”

“I just want you to be safe, Harry. I _need_ you to be safe. That’s all I mean in saying any of that.”

“You don’t mean, I don’t know, that you think it’s inevitable that I’m going to relapse? Because you sound pretty fucking sure of it, Nick. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Louis is staring at him, confused and worried, and Harry doesn’t look back at him.

Nick sighs. “I’m saying that I want you to make the best possible choices for yourself that you can, whatever that might look like. I won’t apologize for being scared that I’m going to lose my best friend for real this time.”

“You _won’t._ I need you all to stop saying that to me.”

“Okay, okay,” Nick relents. After another sigh, he says, “If you’re in a good enough mood to call me, I need you to use the rest of the energy in being nice to your bloody husband. He seems to be handling everything well, and he swears up and down that he’s not affected by any of the mean shit you say to him when you’re all keyed up, but Haz, dude, I need you to go and give him a hug, alright, because his job right now is not easy.”

“You’ve been single for ages,” Harry says, and it’s instinctive, almost, like he hasn’t forgotten how to do this. How to banter with someone over something stupid. How to talk about something not so serious. “But I will. I promise. I know I’ve been, like. . . really awful. I try to apologize for it, but. I don’t know. You’re right.”

“I know I’m right. Now go.”

Nick doesn’t even give him a chance, he just hangs up on Harry. So, Harry takes a deep breath and glances at Louis, who’s staring back at him with wide, tired eyes. 

“You alright, love?” he asks, and Harry ignores him in favor of crawling towards him and slotting himself in between Louis and the couch. He tucks his face into Louis’ rib cage and just clings, and Louis holds him back just as tight.

-

When Harry asked Reese to fly out to Los Angeles to see him, he fully expected her to say no. He _wanted_ her to say no; the only reason why he asked is so he can tell Louis that he tried. And maybe she knew that, because she pretended like it was completely normal for her to fly to a different country to see her sponsee. 

“Are you sure?” Harry asked probably a hundred times, and she said, “Yeah, positive. I’m not busy here, and if you’re paying, I don’t see the issue.”

And honestly -- Harry walked himself right into this trap, so he can’t even be mad. (Except he is, because now he has to go meet up with Reese in a hotel room and spill his innermost secrets.) 

At least Louis seems happy about it. He offers to come with him multiple times, but Harry declines, tells him that he needs to relax. It’s been sixteen days since Harry drank and he swears neither of them have had a moment to relax since. 

At least he hasn’t lost his fucking shit on Louis since he talked to Nick. There’s at least that. 

The drive to the hotel is short, yet long enough for him to have an honest talk with himself. He needs to tell her the truth about everything. He needs her to have her walk with him step-by-step from the moment he got off of tour until now, because as the thoughts get louder and more cluttered, he’s beginning to realize that he has not been proactive about digesting all of this. Going to meetings, sitting down, and sharing what he’s been dealing with isn’t enough. It’s really not, not when explaining his emotions and actions doesn’t help him scrub the guilt away. And he hasn’t been to a meeting since he’s been in LA, so really, he needs to figure this out. 

When he reaches her room, Reese promises that she’ll do her best at helping him out with that. 

They begin by talking about how Harry might have been affected by the end of his tour. Did it get harder because he was no longer busy, no longer had a day-to-day purpose, or was it always hard and he just didn’t have anything to distract himself with so he finally had to confront it? They talk through that, and Harry decides that no, he was fine throughout the whole tour -- it was after it that he stopped being fine. 

Harry goes to jump to talk about the spontaneous trip to Italy next, but she backs him up a bit, says that they need to talk about what led to that. What was he running away from, and why did he think he’d find solace from it in Italy? And when Harry’s answer of, “I don’t know, it wasn’t -- I was struggling and wanted a change of pace,” leads to her squinting at him and asking if he’s being honest, that’s when Harry starts to feel his defenses tighten right back up, ready to push her right back out. 

“I have gone to Italy before to relax, have some time off. When I’m done fine, and when I’m not doing so fine. It’s just, like, a vacation. Me wanting to leave doesn’t mean anything.”

“I think that it does,” Reese says calmly, ignoring the way Harry’s suddenly taken to speaking to her like she’s incapable of understanding something simple. “I think that since you’ve done the same thing by coming here, by coming to LA and refusing to go home, that this is an issue.”

He rolls his eyes, clenches his jaw and looks off to the side. “An _issue?_ ”

“Yeah, an issue.”

“Look, I have enough _‘issues’_ that are more serious than me wanting to take a bloody _vacation_.” A part of him knows that’s not the exact truth, and he’s about to push it down before he remembers that he’s here to be honest. “And I came to LA to try and push Louis to do things for his own career, and yeah, I’ll admit that I came here knowing that I’d slip up, and maybe that means I wanted to, but that has nothing to do with Italy.”

She asks if they can take a break, since Harry’s starting to become defensive. He agrees, because he’s not an idiot and can acknowledge that he can’t have productive conversations when he’s planning his defense while he’s supposed to be listening. So she starts to tell him about her third stint in rehab, about how she bitched out one of the guards or something -- Harry doesn’t much feel like listening, because he’s never been one to sit around and laugh about his time in a fucking prison where everyone around him made him feel insane. No phone, no family, no way to tell how hard his career was tanking -- just him, his thoughts and his issues. 

“What about you?” she says when she’s finished. Harry glances at her tiredly. 

“What about me?”

“Did you do anything stupid in rehab? Any good stories to tell?”

“I didn’t go there to get _stories_ to tell,” Harry says, his anger shooting right back up. “It wasn’t fuckin’ fun for me, you know. I was terrified. It’s not anything to joke about, and it’s certainly not anything worth talking about.”

And he knows that look on her face, he’s seen it before, and he even better knows that tone in her voice when she says, “You’ve mentioned before that it was a traumatizing experience for you. I think we should talk about that.” He’s walked in her trap without even realizing it, and now she’s using words like trauma and pressing on a subject that Dr. Schnell would always want to ‘explore further’ and would frown when Harry refused. 

He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “I don’t follow.”

“You finally get back home from an eight-month long tour, and you’re only there for a month or two before you randomly decide to go to Italy,” she says, like it at all makes sense now. “And then --”

“And then I came back home and stayed there for a long time,” he finishes, and she shakes his head. 

“No, then you came back home and stuck around for a bit before you went to LA. And then a month later, you were back in Italy.”

“For _work,_ ” he snaps. He doesn’t even know what the fuck she’s getting at, he just knows that he doesn’t like it at all. 

“And now you’re back in LA,” she says. Reese ignores him like it’s not her fucking job to listen. “I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that you’ve been doing your best to stay out of London. And I think that it might have something to do with the fact that you have unresolved trauma from your stay in rehab, because the last time you did bad and you were in London, you were hospitalized.”

Harry stares at her, partially annoyed and partially -- no, actually, yeah, he’s just one-hundred percent annoyed. Because he doesn’t know if that’s true, and even if it is, _it doesn’t help him_. All this talking is pointless. He’s pretty sure it always has been. 

“You could be wrong,” he says, just for the sake of it. 

“Yeah. I could be. It’s not like I have a degree in this stuff or know how to properly psychoanalyze people.” It’s most definitely a dig at him for not seeing his therapist, but she doesn’t dwell on the point. “I just know what worked for me, and what works for a lot of other people, and I know that you’re never going to have a successful time in sobriety if you don’t work through the shit that keeps you up at night. From my perspective, you’ve reconciled your relationship with Louis and your career, but that’s where you stopped. You’re not in a good spot with your friends or family, and you’re definitely not in a good spot with yourself.”

“I’ve been doing okay for five years,” he says, and that’s the last line of defense he has. It’s a truth he doesn’t think she can take away from him, until she does. 

“I think you’ve been managing to ignore as much as you could for as long as could, just like you did before,” Reese tells him. “You faked having your life together for ten years, and then you hit a wall and had no choice but to go to rehab. And now you’ve faked being in a genuinely good place in your sobriety until it became too much, and now you’re confronting everything you tried to ignore.”

He stares up at the ceiling, wondering what she expects him to say to that. This conversation couldn’t have been easy no matter what, and he wasn’t expecting it to be, but -- _fucking hell,_ she didn’t have to go in on him so hard. She didn’t have to call him a fraud, because he was proud of his sobriety, and now she’s saying he shouldn’t be because he hasn’t been doing it right. 

“That’s not at all what I’m saying,” she says quickly once he says that. “I mean it, Harry. Being sober is something to be proud of, no matter how you get there. But you know what feels better than being sober for five years? Being sober for six. And being sober for seven feels even better than that, and so on and so forth. And it’s _okay_ that you’ve fallen off the wagon a bit, because you _always_ have the opportunity to get back on. It’s just -- if you want to have a permanent spot on the wagon, you have to, like, change the tires and -- and I don’t know, whatever else you would have to do to take care of a fucking wagon. A broken one will only take you so far.”

“You sound insane,” he says as he shuts his eyes, because it’s getting harder and harder to ignore what she’s saying, to prevent himself from processing it. And yeah, maybe that in itself is proof that he doesn’t confront things properly. 

She laughs quietly. “Yeah. Probably. And we can take a break now, an actual break, because you look like you're going to explode in a ‘sec. We can just sit here and not talk until you’re reading to start talking through some of this shit.”

“Ten minutes,” he says, suddenly feeling so tired, so young, so small. He reaches in his pocket and says, “Do you mind if I smoke?”

-

Things go well with Reese up until the exact moment that they start to go horribly, horribly wrong. 

The conversation they have lasts for an entire hour. They go through his life frame by frame from the second he got out of rehab, and it’s exhausting and anxiety-inducing and he’d really rather not, but talking about this all genuinely is making him feel a bit lighter. Just a bit, but it’s enough to make the load he’s carrying shrink slightly, and that’s not something to minimize. 

She tells him a few times throughout the conversation that this is the type of thing a therapist is for, that Dr. Schnell could help with all of this even better, but when he quietly tells her that he’s not ready for that, but he feels ready for this, and _can that be enough, please?_ she doesn’t bring it up again. 

It’s cathartic, and it feels like the first step back in the right direction until he pushes himself too far. Until he shoves down that panic that kicks up at the thought of coming clean about this part, telling himself to suck it up and push through it. 

Harry tells Reese that he has a dealer’s phone number in his contact list. Maybe it was the right thing to tell her, maybe this had to happen, it’s just. . . 

“You can’t expect yourself to stay sober with that type of temptation,” she tells him, which is exactly what he was expecting. He was even expecting her to say, “Delete it.”

“I know. I will.”

“Do it now.”

Harry’s heart drops and he looks at her cautiously. “What?”

“Do it now,” she says firmly. “There’s no point in keeping it if you aren’t going to use. And you’re not going to use, right?”

“Right,” he says, licking his lips. “Yeah. Right.”

But he doesn’t move to pull out his phone until she nods at him like _okay, go on then_. Since he can’t figure out how to tell her that he’s not ready to do that yet, he hesitantly pulls out his phone and slowly, so slowly, goes to his contacts list. Goes to Aaron, clicks the contact open, and for a second, he thinks he can do it, and then he’s frantically repeating the phone number in his head over and over and over again. 

213-555-7529, 213-555-7529, 213-555-7529, 213-555-7529.

He hovers over the delete button, and she tells him that it’s okay if it’s hard. 

213-555-7529, 213-555-7529, 213-555-7529, 213-555-7529.

A few more seconds, and she tells him that it’s time to let go. 

555-7529, 555-7529, 555-7529, 555-7529, 555-7529, 555-7529. 

When he clicks delete, he regrets it. Is there a way to recover deleted contacts, or -- God, he should’ve taken a screenshot of it or quickly wrote it down somewhere in his phone, he should’ve -- shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit. 

Over and over again in his head runs that number, and he won’t calm down until he has it written down again and calls it to make sure he didn’t lose his connection to Aaron. Over and over again, 555-7529, 555-7529, 555-7529, and it’s nauseating and he can’t focus on Reese anymore, and it’s -- 555-7529, 555-7529, 555-7529. 

He leaves fifteen minutes later with the excuse that when he was on his phone, he saw a missed call from Nick and a voicemail, says that probably means he has somewhere to be or something to sign or someone to talk to. She seems to buy it -- he’s _certain_ she bought it, because if she didn’t, she would’ve looked disappointed instead of proud -- and then he’s gone. He’s fucking gone, and before he gets down the hallway, he’s already whipping his phone out and dialing that number, 555-7529, 555-7529, 555-7529, 555-7529, and then it’s ringing and it’s ringing and it’s --

“Harry, mate. Was wondering when I’d get a call from you.”

The relief hits him so hard that he has to stop, has to grab the wall for support. His head feels spacey and light, and he lets out a breathless laugh. “Yeah. Yeah. Me, too.” Now that he knows that he hasn’t lost Aaron, that his phone number is back stored somewhere in his phone, he tries to talk himself out of doing something stupid right now. He doesn’t need to do anything _right now_ , he doesn’t have to, he can just fucking relax, he needs to fucking relax. 

But Louis isn’t expecting him back at a certain time, and it wouldn’t be weird if he was out for a few more hours. Harry and Reese could’ve easily talked for another hour or two if he didn’t flip out and leave. When is he going to get another opportunity to have this clean of an alibi? 

Distantly, he knows that Aaron is talking, but he can’t bring himself to care. Instead, he interrupts whatever he’s saying to ask, “Do you have some on you right now?”

“Yeah. I do. I’m having some people over tonight if you want to wait until then. Right now, it’s just me and Laura.”

“No. No. I don’t want to be around people. Just -- text me your address and I’ll be there in ten, okay? Or -- or like, however long it takes me to get there.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll text it to you. See you in a bit, man.”

And then Aaron hangs up, and Harry shoves his phone in his pocket, stands up straight, and gets to his car as quickly as possible without looking suspicious.

-

It’s an important thing to acknowledge again, the backwardness of addiction. Any time he’s angry or stressed or sad or _panicked_ \-- and panicked has never had a clearer image in his head until now -- he wants heroin even more. Even if that anger or stress or sadness or panic is from wanting to stay sober, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, because those things need to be coped with, and he coped with heroin for ten years. 

Surely, that will be a good thing to remind himself when he is dropping from a high and asking himself what the fuck he just did.

When Aaron opens the door, Harry can’t actually believe that he’s here. Not in the sense that he knows he’s about to do something he’ll regret, but in the sense that he’s actually _here,_ about to be reintroduced to something that he fucking loves. Yeah, heroin’s fucking bad for him, he fucking knows that, even now, but it’s -- it’s _his._ It’s something that makes him feel so, _so_ good, and he’s about to have that again. _Right now._

With little small talk, Aaron leads him to the back room. He must make good money doing this shit, because he lives in a good neighborhood and has black leather couches and ugly rugs that seem to make their way into every wealthy person’s house. And _shit,_ Harry realizes doesn’t have any money on him. He blurts it out, and as Aaron laughs, Harry’s thinking that he will _literally_ beat the shit out of Aaron and just take the stash from him. 

“It’s fine, man, you’re cool,” Aaron says. “Just make sure to hook your friends up with me, yeah?”

Harry nods, and then they’re in an office-looking space and Aaron is telling him to sit down. Harry sits in one of the rolling chairs and listens to Laura and Aaron talk to each other, so casual, with such ease. Harry closes his eyes, gearing himself up for this, and while he’s doing everything in his power to ignore the _no no no no no don’t do this no no no no_ , hands gently touch his shoulders. He opens his eyes to glance down at Laura’s tender hands on his shoulders, sliding up his neck and then back down, reaching for his arm. She’s saying something, he realizes, words so soft that they get drowned out by the chaos in his head. It reminds him of the first time he got high, of the woman who injected it for him, and here he is, fifteen years later and --

“Are you ready?”

Harry nods and closes his eyes again. “Just -- just not too much. I haven’t had it in a while.”

“Of course, love.”

And then, in one quick motion, the syringe is placed against his arm, pushed into his skin, and it’s --

\-- nothing, for a minute, because everything fades away, turns syrupy and foggy and unimportant. And then it’s everything, the rush coming at him so fast and sweet. His head drops to the side, his body suddenly warm and heavy and somehow soft-feeling, too. Hands are back on his shoulders, massing them gently, and Harry’s gone, he’s not even fucking here anymore, and it’s _incredible_. 

The intense happiness starts to fizzle out after a few minutes, but it isn’t immediately replaced by anything. For a while, he’s just empty, and it’s still an amazing feeling. 

If Harry had to guess, he’d assume it takes him twenty minutes or so to start crying. It’s just him and Laura now, Aaron having gone off somewhere, and she shushes him and pets his hair and tells him things like _you did great, sweetheart_ and _didn’t you feel so good?_ She’s kind and gentle and caring, but she’s not -- she’s not Louis, not his husband, who’s waiting for him at home, thinking that Harry’s talking to his sponsor. This is all a fucking _joke_. 

“I need to call my friend,” he croaks out. Laura tells him that it’s probably a good idea, and she kisses his cheek on her way out, closing the door behind her. A part of Harry knows that Aaron and Laura both know full well that he’s not supposed to be using, and they probably ignored it because if Harry gets hooked again, he’ll blow as much money on it as he has to. They know that, and they took advantage of him, and he probably took advantage of them, too, and he definitely took advantage of all the ones who trust him, so it doesn’t even matter at this point. It’s what he deserves. 

Nick doesn’t answer at first, so Harry calls again. This time, he does answer with a groan and a, “How do you expect me to enjoy any of the men in Los Angeles when you’re calling me every other day?”

And it’s a joke, but it makes Harry sob, and then Nick’s asking him over and over again what’s wrong, what’s happening, what is he crying?

“I screwed up, Nick,” Harry cries, his voice broken and slurred. The words are all glued together from the high and from the tears, and it makes him cry harder. He swears this high used to last a little bit longer -- probably because it wasn’t immediately confronted with the knowledge that he just screwed his life up. “I screwed up so, _so_ bad.”

Nick gets with the program really fucking fast. “You used heroin?”

“Yeah.”

“How are you feeling?”

Harry sniffles and wipes at his face. His arms are still heavy and his mouth is dry, his head is a little light and he’s drowsy, although not in an alarming way. “Okay.”

“Where are you? Are you somewhere safe?”

“A friend’s. Yes. And there’s nobody else here.”

“Do you have your car with you?”

Harry presses the heel of his hand into his eye. This fucking sucks. He won’t let himself think anything more than that. “Yeah.”

“Okay. I’m with someone, and he can come with me so we can move your car, okay? Now, what’s the address so I can come get you?”

Harry gives it to him. 

“Okay, okay, not too far. I’m already leaving. Does Louis know?”

“ _No,_ ” Harry says hurriedly. “No, he doesn’t, and you can’t -- you _can’t_ tell him. You _can’t_.”

“We can talk about this later, alright? Now just hang tight. I’m on my way.”

-

Harry manages to remain somewhat calm until he gets a text from Nick that says he’s five minutes away. And that’s -- _no, no, no._ Harry’s not ready for what’s to come, he’s not ready to face all of this. It’s probably a bad idea, calling out for Laura with a weak voice, but she comes and she’s sweet, kind, and she doesn’t argue when he asks for more. 

Aaron leans against the doorway. “Not too much, Laur.”

“I know what I’m doing, thanks.”

And clearly, she does. 

Nick is there faster than he said he’d be, knocking on the door and coming in to fetch him, and Harry is freshly high and back to being unfazed by the world. The passive aggressive comments being thrown every which way around him fall onto deaf ears, and then he’s being hefted up like he’s incapable of supporting any of his weight. He finds out quickly that he isn’t able to after all, and he barely manages to hold onto Nick. It’s a miracle they make it to the car. 

They’ve been driving for an indeterminable amount of time when Harry starts to become more checked into what’s going around him. The chill of the window that his head is pressed against and the sticky flush of his skin and the slow, relaxed beat of his heart. Nick’s hands strangling the steering wheel, the way he hits the blinker too hard, how shaky the turns are. Above all, Harry’s blurred reality comes to terms with the fact that he feels like complete and utter garbage; his stomach is in knots and he’s sweaty and his head is pounding.

He closes his eyes, and instantly, Nick roughly grabs his wrist, yanking on him. “Eyes fucking open,” he hisses, and Harry listens to him and ignores his body’s plea for sleep.

“You can’t take me home,” are the words Harry says first. Not an apology, but a demand. It makes him feel even worse, so he says, “Please, Nick, I can’t go home.”

“What am I supposed to do with you? And what are you going to tell Louis?”

Harry thinks about it, even though it’s incredibly difficult to do right now. Eventually, he settles on, “Take me home, with you, and in -- in like an hour, call Louis and say that I. . . that I called you because I was upset from talking to Reese and,” he pauses, waits for the nausea to fade, and then pushes on. “And say that I fell asleep and you’ll call him when I wake up. If he doesn’t stay away tonight, I can -- fuck. I could probably manage to hide this from him if he comes over tonight to take me home, if we have to do that.”

A beat of silence, and then, “You really can be an awful person _. Especially_ to Louis. How does it feel, Harry, to know that you can come up with a lie like that so easily? Do you think that’s _normal?_ Do you think normal people ask their friends to lie to their _husbands_ for them?”

Harry presses his forehead firmer against the window and closes his eyes when a particularly rough wave of nausea comes crashing in. Nick pulls on his wrist again and tells him to keep his eyes open. 

-

The next time he’s coherent enough to acknowledge the world around him, he’s in Nick’s bed and there are voices coming from the hallway. 

“He said he felt sick, too,” he hears Nick say, and that was a fucking brilliant move, because Harry feels like absolute _hell_. “He was crying pretty hard, so. It wouldn’t be the first time he cried himself sick.”

Louis’ voice doesn’t carry as well, but Harry catches Reese’s name along with a few other words. Based on Nick’s response, Louis asks if he knows how it went with Reese, and Nick lies about that, too. He says that he's pretty sure Harry thought it was beneficial to see her, and that _is_ the truth -- or it _was,_ for most of the night -- but it’s a lie for Nick because they never talked about it. Harry came here, cried because he was exhausted until Nick let him go to sleep, and then he crawled into Nick’s bed. 

Harry doesn’t deserve Nick or Louis, and they don’t deserve to have to deal with him. 

When footsteps come down the hallway, Harry hides face against the pillow and pretends to be asleep. He holds his breath when Louis climbs into bed behind Harry and starts to run his fingers through his hair. 

“His forehead _is_ a little hot,” Louis says quietly, and Nick sighs. It’s weighted; he’s undoubtedly hating himself right now, too. 

“Maybe he picked up a bug here. Could be part of the reason why he’s been so fuckin’ grumpy.”

Louis hums as a response. Nick leaves the room, and Louis keeps playing with Harry’s hair for a few minutes before he kisses his cheek and whispers that he knows he’s awake. Feeling called out, Harry blushes like mad and turns to face Louis, and Louis is all soft and worried and gentle. 

He’s about to say something when all the sudden he feels like he might vomit. He sits up, coughs a bit, and then Nick is right back in his room snapping, “Go to the bathroom, you’re not puking in my fucking bed. Absolutely not.”

It’s a little mean, a little charged, and Harry ignores it because he genuinely thinks he might throw up. He doesn’t, but he sits in front of the toilet bowl for nearly a half hour with Louis right behind him. 

“Could just be nerves, love,” Louis whispers to him. “It was a hard day for you.”

Harry is a fucking fraud. It’s going to eat him alive, if the way he already feels it so intensely is anything to go by. 

“I want to go home,” he whispers, closing his eyes and setting his forehead on his forearm that’s resting against the toilet bowl, even though Louis said that was gross. Louis is quick to tell him that they can, but no, he doesn’t understand. Their house isn’t far away enough from this mess, from Aaron, from Laura, from that hotel room that he met Reese in. “I want to go back to London, Louis,” Harry corrects tiredly, and just as quick, Louis agrees. 

-

It takes seventy-two hours for the physical withdrawal symptoms to subside. 

The following day after he used, they do go back home to London. The first thing Harry wants to do is to go to a group meeting -- he legitimately wants to go, that’s not a lie, he swears -- but he feels shaky and sweaty and just _bad_. It’s a general sense of malaise more than anything, and nothing comes anywhere near how he felt all those years ago. However, it does have him in bed for the majority of those three days, turns reaching the couch into an achievement. 

His body accepts that the chemicals it’s searching for are not coming back and moves on the best it can. His _mind_ on the other hand. . . He’s never been in a place this dark before. And he can’t talk about it with Louis, and Nick gets very angry very fast whenever Harry tries to open up to him, so Harry’s left alone to deal with this until he can pull himself out of bed long enough to go to group. 

On the fourth day back home, he manages to do just that.

Everyone’s happy to see him, and he saves face by chatting with them all like nothing’s the matter, until they’re all sat in the circle and Harry immediately says he’ll go when Chris asks who wants to get the ball rolling. 

And then everyone’s staring at him, and suddenly, Harry’s back to feeling sick. He pushes through it. 

“I, um. . . I relapsed. About four days ago.”

It was scarier to say that out louder than he even imagined. He’s sweating and exposed and nauseous, and he can’t even stop now because everyone wants to know more, if their wide eyes and frowns and winces are anything to go by. 

“It was my fault,” he says slowly, because he has to put that out there before anybody accuses him of not holding himself accountable for his actions. “It’s obviously my fault, I know. I just -- it was. . . a long story, sort of, but I guess all that matters is that I shot up. Like, twice. And I still haven’t, um. I still haven’t told my husband, and I don’t think I plan on it.”

“That’s fucked,” Blake says, seemingly emboldened by her friendship with Harry. “You can’t just not tell him.”

Chris intervenes. “Before we get to that, I think it’s important to point out that, um, hello, we’re all here to listen to each other’s “long stories” because nobody else will. It _is_ important. How you got there is probably more important than anything else.”

He explains how it all happened as casually as he can manage, tries to remove himself and his emotions from the story as much as possible, but in the end, he can’t help but add, “I was just scared. I was. . . I was really, really scared. It’s not an excuse, but it’s -- I was terrified, and I don’t think I was ready for that big of a step, and I just -- I just threw it all away.”

“Would you have expected your sponsor to not ask you to delete the dealer’s phone number?” Chris asks, eyebrows drawn together. 

“Obviously not,” Harry mumbles, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I knew she would tell me to do it, I just didn’t think she’d make me do it in front of her. So, like -- like I don’t think I ever had any intention of actually deleting it, I just wanted to be honest with someone that I had it, and it was all -- awful. Yeah. It was all pretty awful.”

“And you were five years sober?” someone asks. Harry nods. 

“Five and a half, yeah. And now I don’t know what the fuck to do with all my chips.”

“Keep them,” an older man named Donny asks. He’s always been a kind face at these meetings. “That’s what I always did, anyway. Because if you got rid of them, that feels like quitting. You’ll be back there eventually.”

Harry just nods. It’s not like he’d be able to get rid of them without Louis noticing, anyway. 

Chris asks him how he’s been doing these past few days, and Harry doesn’t hesitate to be honest. The physical aspects aside, he’s been hit pretty hard mentally, and it’s taken him to new lows that he’s pretty sure he’s never encountered before. It’s like. . . It’s like he didn’t just lose his sobriety that night, but he also lost a part of himself, and he doesn’t know how to get either of those things back. He’s lost and scared and questioning everything, and he doesn’t know how to move forward from this point. 

“You just have to,” someone says unhelpfully. And even more unhelpfully, Blake says, “By telling your partner, maybe. You can’t get through this if you lie to him. You’ve been in here enough times to talk about how your sobriety relies on him too much; how can you be sitting here now, saying that you aren’t going to tell him?”

“Because he’s been dealing with enough shit from me,” Harry snaps without meaning to. Somehow, he doesn’t feel bad for it. “I have been a terrible husband for months now, and I can’t keep pouring all this onto him. He doesn’t deserve it.”

“But he deserves to be lied to?” Blake asks pointedly. 

Harry glares at her. “He deserves to have his husband protect him from things he doesn’t need to know about.”

“God, _listen_ to yourself,” Blake says with a scoff. “No fucking wonder why you relapsed.”

And just like that, Harry is shut down. Nope, he’s done for the night. He’ll come back tomorrow or something, try again then. The switch of vulnerability has been turned off, end of story. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back into the chair, beyond hurt, and tunes out Chris’ attempts at reminding Blake that they aren’t here to judge or criticize each other. This is a _support_ group. 

Chris says his name a few times before Harry processes it and responds. “What?”

“Keep talking,” Chris coaxes, and Harry shakes his head. 

“I’m fine. Someone else can go.”

And Chris gives him this sad, understanding smile, one that makes Harry’s gut twist. “Shutting yourself down protects you in the moment but hurts you in the long run. You mentioned that your sponsor kept saying that you weren’t processing things, and, well. I think we’re all seeing that right now.”

“I just got berated by a child,” Harry retorts. “I didn’t come here for that.”

“No, you didn’t. I agree. You came here to talk. So, talk.”

Harry rolls his eyes, which are watering for some stupid reason. It could be the withdrawal symptoms still. Deep down, he knows it isn’t. “I already said anything, didn’t I?”

Chris gives him another one of those smiles. “Come on. I’m sure there is some fucked up shit you’ve done since you’ve been here last that we could all learn from. Come on, tell us how to not end up like Mr. Harry Styles.”

And for a second, Harry has his own small smile. Just for a second, because then he’s blurting out that he yelled at his mum and hasn’t been answering any of her calls and Chris’ joke is far from funny anymore. The group doesn’t just say _call her_ and leave it there; they help him figure out what the right things to say, and they share their own meltdowns directed at loved ones, and they remind him that he’s done this before and somehow found the strength to apologize for all his mistakes in the past. What’s one more?

At the end of the meeting, everyone shuffles out. Harry’s pulling his coat on when Blake comes up to him, looking irritated and tired. She didn’t share anything personal tonight, and judging by how worn down she looks, it wasn’t because there wasn’t anything interesting to say. 

“I guess I also know what it feels like knowing you’re the asshole once you snap at someone,” she says quietly as she crosses her arms over stomach. She sighs and glances behind him, towards the door. “I still think you need to tell Louis, but. The fuck do I know, right? I’m just some nobody.” Her words aren’t hostile, yet they aren’t joking, either. She’s hurting, and Harry had been caught on the other hand of her lashing out. 

“You sober?” he asks, and he’s not surprised when she shakes her head. 

“I haven’t been able to stop since I started back up again. It. . . hasn’t been great, I’ll tell you that much.” Harry opens to his mouth to respond, but she shakes her head, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t really want to talk about it. And my ride is waiting for me anyway, just. . . Take care of yourself, okay? And I’ll try to do the same.”

He nods. “Odds are one of us will succeed.”

“Nah,” she says with a sad laugh. “Odds are we’ll both keep fucking up.”

It’s not the attitude that she should be having, although Harry has slowly learned that it doesn’t matter what words you say out loud if you don’t believe them. He thought he had it all figured out because the words he said indicated that much, they sounded smart and proper, yet they completely contradicted the mess inside his head. 

“Yeah, well. Call me if you need someone to yell at, okay?” he tells her, hoping that it translates as he means it to. And when he realizes that he’s doing the same exact thing that he was _just_ thinking about, not saying what he really felt, he says, “Seriously, though. Call me if you ever need me.”

“Yeah. You too, Harry.”

He walks her to her car, and as she buckles in beside an older gentleman, maybe her dad, he selfishly thinks, _Come on, Harry. Don’t end up stuck like she is._

-

To push through this inescapable, excruciating mental torture isn’t easy. It takes a lot of hard work, grit, and communication -- things that he doesn’t have the energy for most days. On the days he does, he tries his best to nurture those emotions and use them to propel him forward. The good, productive days are few and far between, so his progress is limited, but he tries not to worry about the big-picture stuff as much as he possibly can. 

By the end of two hellish months, however, he swears that the big-picture tells him that he made some good fucking progress. At first, he reaches into the old tool box: exercising almost excessively, having sex almost every day, smoking way too much, staying inside. After only two and a half weeks of that, he started to slip. Started to think about how much money he could give to Aaron to get him to come out to London to see him or his odds at finding a new, safe dealer. A part of him was too tired to fight, and the other part of him refused to look at defeat as an option. He was going to get fucking through this, because he’s been in this mess long enough and he’s fucking _sick_ of it. 

So, he made an appointment with Dr. Schnell.

And maybe he should’ve listened to those around him sooner, because he’s almost certain he can contribute a lot of his progress to the help of Dr. Schnell, the honest dialogue between them, and the plans they set into place for Harry. Dr. Schnell takes things day by day with him, gives him small tasks to complete that makes him feel good about himself, asks him to do things that shouldn’t be too hard. The one thing that Dr. Schnell asks of him that he doesn’t do is come clean to Louis or Reese about his relapse. Harry does the nightly journaling and the morning walks with Louis for bonding, he calls his mum and apologizes, he tries his very best at not letting himself get too worked up -- everything that Dr. Schnell asks of him, he does, except that one bit. 

With Reese, it’s that he doesn’t want to tell her. The weight of the conversation is something he’s not ready for. But with Louis -- he _can’t_ tell him. He _can’t_. Because then Louis will be back to not trusting him, back to questioning everything he does, back to thinking about leaving him. And that’s something Harry _has_ sat down with Louis to talk about, the fear that Louis will leave him again. It’s a conversation that Harry has steered clear from because he needs Louis to know that he doesn’t blame him for leaving and that he understands why he did, and Harry thought admitting that he was scared of it happening again would be enough to make Louis think that he resented him. In the end, though, Louis was careful and responsive and he understood, too. He completely got why Harry was scared of that. 

Dr. Schnell was proud of him for having that conversation, and then he used it as a way to try and get Harry comfortable with the idea of telling Louis about the relapse. _Look how well he responded to this, and you were so scared to tell him. Louis will always support you._ But Harry just can’t. 

After Harry starts to steady out a bit again, finding his balance again but barely, he tries to start pushing to get back into work. Dr. Schnell is against it, Louis is wary about it, and Nick -- well. Nick flat out ignores him on the topic, and since Nick handles those types of things for him, including his audition tapes because Harry wants to veer away from music for a little while, Harry sort of just waits until Nick ‘thinks he can handle it.’ 

“I _can_ handle it,” Harry tells him as they enter the third month after Harry using. Of him being sober. (And every time he thinks about how small the new number is compared to those five years, it makes his gut twist in pain. Someone at group told him that those five years didn’t disappear, even if he did relapse. He was still sober for _five whole years._ That’s something to be proud of and to use as motivation.) 

Nick and Harry are sitting in the backyard while Louis is inside, practicing the piano. 

“It’s only been two months,” Nick reminds. They aren’t far enough into the third month to call it three. “And this is the first time that I’ve come over since then and haven’t felt like you and Louis just got done fighting, so. I’m not getting in the way of that, not after you made me lie to him.”

Harry frowns. “Me and Louis haven’t fought in a while.”

“Really?” Nick asks with a scoff. “Every other time you’ve done something stupid, it led to you and Louis fighting for weeks, and now that you’ve actually, properly relapsed, you’ve just been handling it like a champ and become a perfect husband? I don’t buy it.”

“Me getting upset and unintentionally taking it out on him does not count as a fight,” he says, and he hates the way it makes him sound, but there’s no point in lying. He can be pretty awful sometimes. Even if he regrets and apologizes and does his best to make up for it, that doesn’t erase how he can occasionally break down on Louis. “And I do my best to let Louis know I need space before it comes to that. That’s one of the first things I asked Dr. Schnell how to fix, because after we got back home, I was awful. And I don’t,” he sighs. “I don’t want to be awful. I really don’t.”

It’s quiet for a few minutes. Nick doesn’t respond and Harry doesn’t have anything left to say. It’s been difficult between the two of them since that night. Since Harry demanded that Nick lie for him. Nick and Louis’ relationship hasn’t always been great, and they haven’t butt heads in a while, and then Harry went in and forced Nick to keep secrets. All too aware that Nick could fuck up his marriage, Harry tries not to piss him off nowadays. 

Harry pulls out a joint, and before he can even light it, Nick snatches it from him and lights it himself. Harry waits patiently until he gives it back, which eventually he does. 

“Why do you want to do another movie anyway?” Nick asks, voice hoarse from smoking. “Thought you’d be asking to tour again by now.”

“I would love to tour again, but I can’t. I wouldn’t stand a chance at staying sober. And, like. You don’t seem to believe that’s something I’m trying to do, but it is. I want to stay sober. I’m doing what I can to keep myself that way. And, yeah, sure, it’s fair to say that I can’t promise myself that I won’t get stressed out from a movie. Staying home all the time isn’t practical, though. Dr. Schnell says that I can’t succeed if I don’t trust myself.”

And that conversation with his therapist is what brought Reese’s whole point about Harry never approaching sobriety the right way into the conversation. Harry admitted to Dr. Schnell that he’s never really thought that he would be sober forever and that people had told him a long time ago that it wasn’t a healthy mindset. It’s something Dr. Schnell is still trying to work with him on, because you can’t just switch your way of thinking overnight like that. Still, Harry is trying to believe it whenever he tells himself that, although he can’t promise himself that he won’t ever relapse, knowing that is different than assuming that he will.

“If I asked Louis what he thought,” Nick says, “are you honestly telling me he’d be comfortable with you going back to work?”

Harry doesn’t even have to think about that answer. He’s not stupid. Nick caught him on a good day, and even though Harry’s doing his best to keep it a good one while he has the energy to, that doesn’t mean he’s suddenly naive. 

“No,” Harry answers quietly. “He’d probably tell me not to do it. But, it’s like -- like, I still want to. I don’t think it’s fair for you or him to be the one to decide if I can go back to my career or not.”

“And I don’t think it was fair to ask me to lie to your husband,” Nick says immediately, like he had his answer ready. Harry huffs out a breath and looks at him, and Nick doesn’t seem to care how unfair that is. He’s angry, and he has every right to be. “I won’t do it again,” Nick says firmly, eyes fierce. “I won’t.”

Harry nods. “Okay,” There isn’t much else he can say to that. 

“Okay,” Nick echoes. He stands, and Harry follows him with his eyes, a little upset that this conversation is over before it even really began. “You’ve been sober for two seconds, Haz,” he says, almost apologetically. “I’m not sticking you back into the game just yet.”

Harry wraps his arms around his legs and shrugs, pretends like that doesn’t hurt that much. “Two complete months is a lot longer than two seconds, but no, yeah. I get what you mean.”

“We can reassess the situation in a month,” Nick tells him with a small sigh. He doesn’t look too happy about it, but at least he’s giving Harry a chance. Or, like, a chance to have a chance. 

“Fine,” Harry agrees. “A month. And then we can talk about it again.”

Nick mumbles an okay before walking to the back gate. It’s dark out, but not dark enough to conceal his tense back and his fidgety fingers at his side or the short shake of his head as he reaches the gate. A hand on the lock, Nick turns to him and says, “Two months is something to be proud of. I _am_ proud of you, you know. I didn’t mean to minimize how big of a deal that is.”

His voice is quiet, but Harry throws an anxious look over his shoulder over to the window anyway. He can’t see Louis, so hopefully that means he’s not close enough to hear. 

“Thanks,” Harry says with a thin smile. “Night, Nick.”

Nick pushes open the gate. “Night, H.”

-

There are good days. 

Days where he wakes up and rolls over to cuddle back up with Louis, not in an attempt to avoid the day by not getting out of bed, but to be close with his husband and share the same warmth. If Louis’ not up yet, Harry dozes off until he wakes, and if he is already awake, they talk quietly for as long as it takes to convince themselves to make breakfast. They normally cook together; sometimes, depending on the morning, Harry will go outside and smoke a bit. Not too much, because lately, he’s been trying to smoke only when he needs to and not just for the hell of it, because if he was smoking for fun on top of smoking out of necessity, he would be stoned all the goddamn time. 

After breakfast, Harry goes and works out while listening to music or a podcast, _not_ about addiction because it’s the one time he can almost turn that part of his brain off. On good days, he doesn’t wear himself out too much -- doesn’t have to -- and once he’s done, he goes out on a walk with Louis to cool down. And they run into fans sometimes, and Louis never minds it and Harry only sometimes does. 

They shower together once they come in from their walks. A nonverbal agreement was made at the start of this routine that there won’t be any sex during this time, because intimacy isn’t all about that. (There is, however, more than a handful of times that sex immediately follows the shower, but that is a completely different story.) It’s not like they haven’t been close these past few months, it’s just. . . they haven’t been on the same page for a while, and it’s important to keep their relationship solid. Bonding never hurt anyone, and having all these little routines with Louis makes Harry’s day easier, no matter what. 

On Mondays and Fridays, Harry goes to group before dinner. On Wednesdays, he sees Dr. Schnell in the afternoon. Having to be surrounded by all of it so often is irritating, but it’s helping, maybe, he doesn’t really know, he just knows he’s been doing a bit better than he has been for months, so. Maybe he shouldn’t mess with the system he has going on. 

He tries to make it a goal to call his mum or sister at least once or week, and that actually happens about every other week. It’s always been somewhat difficult to talk to them ever since he got sober, always afraid to say the wrong thing, and now that they know he’s not doing great, he feels like they’re accusing him of something every time he talks to them. Gemma doesn’t mean to, and his mum doesn’t seem to realize when she does it, and it’s exhausting. 

There _are_ good days, which is what he has to remind himself of on the bad ones. 

Sometimes there are mornings that he wakes up and _immediately_ cries. _Immediately_. He swears he must be having fucked up dreams that somehow escape his memory. Either that, or his body is just having fun attacking itself. Either way, those are by far the worst mornings, especially when he finds himself avoiding Louis’ comfort and protection like it’s the plague. 

On the bad days, his mornings start with tears or him turning over in bed and trying to go back to sleep as soon as he wakes up. It’s like his body _knows_ that he’s about to have a shit day and it’s frantically trying to find the reset switch. He rarely ever is able to go back to sleep, though, so he usually goes downstairs and half-heartedly does something with Bongo until Louis wakes up. 

Some days, Harry is so far in his head that he’s almost completely removed from reality. On those days, him and Louis barely interact, because Harry already feels guilty enough about lying to Louis -- snapping at him only makes that guilt worsen. Other days, Harry isn’t a foot away from Louis; he’s weepy and clingy and so, _so_ antsy because every single day, good or bad, he’s craving heroin, and it makes his skin crawl. The physical reaction he has to the desire has most definitely gotten worse since he used again, so that on top of his mental turmoil turns him into a pathetic, crying mess that Louis has to hold together. 

On bad days, Harry sits in the corner of group and doesn’t say a word, seething the whole time and fleeing the second the meeting is over. He is so anxious or sad that he doesn’t have an appetite and all he wants to do is sleep, or he has enough pent-up rage that he could defeat a whole fucking army by himself. (Although, the intensity of his anger has slowly begun to deflate as if Dr. Schnell and his stupid therapist shit is enough to literally suck it out of him.) 

Most nights that conclude bad days, he goes to bed so stoned that he feels sick. And then he gets shit sleep, and he keeps Louis up with his shifting, and it makes the guilt sing so loud that he cries. There are some nights that Louis will whisper to him in the dark about the stupidest things, the most random memories, just to. . . Harry doesn’t know. Just to show that he’s there, he supposes. It helps, most nights. 

There are good days, and there are bad days, and there are days that Harry can’t classify as either because he sort of just feels like he’s drifting. No matter what, though, no matter if it's good or bad or just another day, Louis is always, _always_ there. His love and support never wavers, and he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to Harry. 

It’s fucking crazy, thinking about how Louis went from being another fit British boy in an American club who seemed to genuinely appreciate Harry’s weird jokes to being one of the only reasons why Harry’s even alive today. He’s thirty-two now, and that’s. . . he wouldn’t have made it this far if he didn’t get sober, and he wouldn’t have gotten sober if it wasn’t for Louis. 

-

A month passes, and Harry feels even more ready than before to go back out into the industry. It’s not like he’s magically fixed, or something, because he’s most definitely not; the day before Nick calls him to tell him that he’s got a script if he wants to look it over, Harry had such a meltdown that his hands went numb and his head felt light for hours. Louis stayed by his side all night, scratching his hand down over his spine and talking to him in whispers and never once asking what the hell that was, because Harry didn’t even really know himself. 

“Really?” Harry asks, confused. He thought they were going to talk about this prior to Nick doing anything. He’s not mad about it, obviously, it just feels. . . nice, sort of, that Nick had enough confidence in him to start looking around already. 

“Yeah. It’s some film set in winter, so chances are, you aren’t going to be in Los Angeles to shoot.” There’s a brief pause, and then, “I don’t want you shooting in LA, so.”

And Harry woke up feeling shaky and exhausted today, still coming down from that anxiety attack the night before (at least, Louis thinks that’s what it was, based on his Google searches) so he doesn’t put up a fight with that. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks. I’ll look over it and let you know.”

Nick does, and once he sends it over, Harry opens it on his laptop and he and Louis read it over together. The movie is about a woman who is settling down from a life of crime in Colorado, and Harry’s character would be the undercover detective who ends up falling in love with her. And then she kills him, which -- whatever. Sounds fun. 

“You ever think about doing, like, a rom-com?” Louis asks with a short laugh once they’re through with the script. He’s perched in Harry’s lap on the arm chair, his arm around Harry’s shoulder. Harry kisses his bicep. 

“Nah. I guess I’m good at playing moody characters.”

That night, Louis helps him film his audition tape, which will _never happen again_ because they have to do about a million takes because Louis keeps laughing, either at Harry or the script. It’s fun, though. Genuinely, it’s a good time. Once they’re finished, Harry sends it back to Nick, who will send it to the director, and word will get back to him eventually. 

After it’s already sent, he’s hit with a random blast of regret, like he’s making a mistake, even though he’s fairly confident that he’s not. It starts to get his mind racing again, and then everything he tries so hard to keep at bay is pulled to the forefront of his mind, having no issue ripping through the hours worth of fun he just had. Louis keeps him settled down; they cook dinner together and then fuck around on the piano for a bit and then _actually_ fuck on the piano. 

By the end of the night, when Louis is breathing softly against the back of his neck, Harry decides that the movie audition wasn’t a mistake. He might not even get the role, and if he does, then that’s the universe or fate or something else showing him that he can handle it. And no, he doesn’t actually believe in that stuff, but some days, he grasps at whatever straws he can reach. 

-

When Nick calls to Harry that he got the role in the movie, Harry’s happy about it. Honest to God, he’s delighted and thinks he can handle it. _Knows_ he can handle it. It stays a source of motivation for him for the two months in-between the audition and the start day of production, serves as a reminder to him every day that he has to stay sober or else he’ll most likely get booted from the movie, and it’s helpful until shooting is next week and Harry is caught in a bad mood. It doesn’t stem from anything in particular, although it’s rotten enough that he almost refuses to go to therapy. Getting out of bed is asking too much of him. Eventually, he pulls himself out of bed and gets ready to go, and even Louis is surprised because he couldn’t coax him out on his own. 

Dr. Schnell must understand that Harry’s in a vulnerable mood just by looking at him, because he’s gentle with Harry in a way that he normally isn’t. It’s not like he’s a hardass, he just _never_ hesitates to call Harry out on his bullshit. Today, though, they don’t even talk about anything tough until ten minutes into the meeting, probably in Dr. Schnell’s subtle way to get him settled down before he has to get him worked up again. 

“You look tired,” Dr. Schnell says as Harry rubs at his eyes. “Did you have trouble sleeping last night?”

Harry shakes his head. “Not really. I am tired, though. Don’t know why.”

“Stress tires out our body quicker than we realize sometimes. Is anything specific worrying you?”

“Movie starts next week,” Harry reminds him. He’s met the director and the producer and the main cast, and they all seem lovely, honestly, so it’s not that. It’s not anything he can pinpoint. “I’m going to be in Canada for, like, eight weeks.”

“Ah, that’s right. So we’re doing our appointments virtually, right?”

Harry nods. It’s not ideal, considering the time zone differences and his already packed schedule, but Harry will sacrifice a few hours of sleep to talk to his therapist. He has to. Going to any sort of therapy regularly was not something he prioritized at all when he was working outside of London, and although that’s not the only reason he relapsed, he’s sure it speaks to how much he was lacking in the self-care department. 

Dr. Schnell and he have talked about it, and Harry’s come to the conclusion that he burned himself out on tour, came home and slid into a depression, and then everything sort of got messier from there. And no matter how many times Dr. Schnell encourages him to take his diagnosis of moderate depression seriously, it’s still something that Harry sees as just another symptom of his addiction that doesn’t need any more attention than the rest. Every goddamn addict he knows is depressed, too. 

(They’re working on that.)

“You seem disoriented,” Dr. Schnell says. “Spaced out. Do you feel disconnected from your reality right now?”

Harry sucks on his front teeth for a second, a little embarrassed. But not really, because honestly, there’s not a sane person in this world who would berate him for choosing smoking weed over shooting up on heroin, so. Dr. Schnell’s a doctor, a big city one at that, and he’s never cared about Harry’s use of marijuana before. “I’m, like, really stoned right now, so. Sorry. I usually don’t smoke so close to our appointments.”

“How many times have you smoked today? Just the once?”

“Like, three times. Ish.” He tacks on the last part due to his pride, because Louis usually leaves him alone about that kind of stuff but eventually he also commented on it the third time. _That’s like a lot, right? I don't even know how you could smoke that much and still be able to stand upright._ And Harry’s mind went straight to how quickly he built up a tolerance to heroin, too, and a thought like that was enough to push him to light the joint. 

“It’s four in the afternoon,” Dr. Schnell says, as if Harry doesn’t know that. “Do you normally smoke that much?”

“When I’m doing bad, yeah.”

“I’ve told you before that isn’t the best way to look at it,” Dr. Schnell says with a small frown. “Life isn’t split into stages of doing ‘bad’ and doing ‘good’. If you continue on with the mindset that a day was all bad because it was a little harder than normal, or a day was completely good because it was mostly alright, you’re not going to learn as much as you could.”

Sinking further into his chair, Harry mumbles, “On the days that I’m not going out of my mind because of how badly I want to shoot up on heroin, I tend to smoke less. Is that better?”

“Let’s try, ‘on the days that I could use a little extra support.’” Harry must make a face, because Dr. Schnell laughs. “Alright, alright. How about, ‘on the days that I need to take it easy’ or ‘on the days that I let myself indulge in chocolate and naps more.’”

“Not a big chocolate person,” Harry says, just to be difficult. Dr. Schnell gives him a look, and Harry raises his hands from the chair. “Okay. Okay. I know. I’ll work on not looking at it that way anymore.”

“Just, if you need to separate the easier days from the harder ones, if looking at it from a ‘good’ and ‘bad’ perspective helps you, then I urge you to not see the bad ones as failures. You’re hard on yourself, we’ve been over this, and going to bed with the idea that you’ve had a bad day when that’s connected to failure in your head -- that isn’t very fair on yourself, don’t you think?”

“I see where you’re coming from,” Harry says, and he honestly means it. Bad days do equal to failures in his mind. Like, he thinks he’s getting stronger, but if he were to look back at all of the last handful of months, he’d say they were mostly filled with bad days. Maybe that’s not fair, and maybe his therapist has a point. 

Harry can’t believe that he stopped seeing Dr. Schnell because of the fact that he said Harry could be manipulative at times. That had been one of the first things Harry brought up, still so bitter about it, and Dr. Schnell very calmly explained to him that he didn’t mean that to be a remark against Harry’s character, rather a statement that showcased how much heroin changed him as a person. 

“I don’t think you’re a manipulative person by nature,” he had said, looking genuinely upset that Harry thought that. “And I’m deeply sorry if my failure to accurately express myself led to your aversion to one-on-one therapy. You’re not supposed to feel attacked here. So, I need you to tell me when I say something that offends you. Understand?”

That was months ago, and now Harry is back to spending more time with Dr. Schnell than he does his own best friend or family. (Another thing Dr. Schnell is trying to work with him on is the fear that Harry has in disappointing his family. Harry has it ingrained in him that his mum and sister won’t want anything to do with him if he’s doing bad -- and yeah, that does have an awful connotation to it, doesn’t it? -- so he should just stay away.) With Zayn, Harry finally admitted out loud that he thinks Zayn doesn’t want anything to do with him because he’s a mess. Harry will tackle that later; he can’t handle letting anyone else in right now. People complicate things. 

“Did you get around to talking to the director about potentially reducing the amount of alcohol there is on set and other activities surrounding the production?”

Harry sighs loudly and closes his eyes. He and a few of the higher-ups of the movie went out for lunch together one day, and Harry almost mustered the strength to bring it up, but he ended up copping out. That feels like too big of an ask, and it’s not like there’s a boat load of alcohol on set anyway. “No,” he replies eventually. “My addiction already affects my life so much. Louis’, too. I don’t want it screwing with anyone else’s.” After a moment, he opens his eyes and admits, “And I just really didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of them.”

“Is that what you’re worried about? Appearing as though you’re not as smart or experienced as the rest of them?”

He bites on his lips and thinks about letting himself keep this piece to himself. Sometimes it leaves him feeling empty, letting everyone know exactly what’s going on in his head. But Dr. Schnell is his therapist, and if Harry’s going to tell anyone this, it should probably be him. “I’m so sick of being a burden on people,” he says, and it comes out sharper than he means it to. It’s just -- _God,_ he’s _tired_ of it.

“Who do you feel like you’re burdening, Harry?”

“Louis,” he says immediately. “For obvious reasons. Nick, because by association, his career sort of took a hit.”

“Nick made his own decisions that led him to where he is today. He _did_ enable you; even if you let go of that resentment, that still remains true. You saying that doesn’t mean that you’re saying he’s a bad friend. It’s just the truth.”

“I guess. No, yeah. I know. He did.”

Dr. Schnell nods slowly, like he wants to give Harry a minute to sit with that. After a few seconds, he says, “Louis loves you. Louis wants to be with you. If he felt like you had baggage too heavy to carry, he never would’ve come back, Harry. You were split for over a year, and he entered your life again, and it sounds like he’s very happy with that decision.”

“He came back because I overdosed again,” Harry says, shaking his head. 

He remembers that day, the afternoon that led to the last straw. A lot of things are blurry from that time period, but he remembers that afternoon. He was in the studio, trying to get work done, and everyone was getting irritated with him because he couldn’t sing properly or play an instrument to save his life. At one point, Harry had slipped out to go and find Nick because he needed another hit, and when he came back, the others decided that they weren’t going to continue tonight because of the way Harry was behaving. They said there was no point in trying to do anything when Harry was so inebriated, and Harry screamed at all of them and told them to leave. They all did, except for one of the writers who stayed with Harry for a bit and let him cry. 

Somehow, it led to Harry kissing him (and Louis couldn’t have cared less when Harry told him this part of the story, honest; Louis never was one to get jealous easily, and they were clearly separated at the time). Harry wanted it to go further, wanted it to go _so_ much further, and the guy refused and left Harry there alone.

Harry, tired and upset and angry, went to go find Nick again. He didn’t find Nick, but he _did_ find the bag that had the heroin in it, and, well. Take a heroin addict who is in the worst of the worst depths of addiction, piss him off, and then give him access to heroin, and you’ll get exactly one result. 

Harry wasn’t trying to hurt himself. At all. That didn’t even cross his mind. And after he shot up again, less than an hour after he last did it, he went back to the studio to try and get back to work by himself. He was just so tired, though, and he figured there was no harm in taking a nap because everybody else already left him. He closed his eyes and melted into the fuzzy feeling. 

The next time he woke up, there were paramedics swarming him, a sharp pain in his thigh from where Nick injected the Narcan, and all he could see was panic. Zayn was there, and he was nearly hyperventilating. When Harry was awake, Zayn screamed at him, called him an idiot, said he didn’t care about anyone else but himself. 

It was chaos from there, and Harry was in and out of consciousness (or at least awareness). He remembers the first coherent thought that came to mind was: _Louis is going to hear about this and be glad that he left._

And then Nick was telling him -- not asking, telling -- that he needed to go into rehab, and Harry was more scared of that than he was of almost dying. 

“Maybe,” Dr. Schnell says. “But he stayed because he loved you.”

Harry knows that, and he’ll never understand why. Never. No amount of therapy will ever lead him to the reason that Louis choses to stay with him throughout all of this. What makes Harry so special that he gets to be loved by someone as special as Louis?

When he says as much, Dr. Schnell squints at him. “Would you fall out of love with Louis because of a sickness that he couldn’t control? Would you stop loving him when things got difficult?”

“Of course not,” Harry says easily. “I wouldn’t leave him for anything.”

“Then you understand what he thinks about you.”

Harry shrugs and looks down at his fingers. “He’s going to Canada with me,” he says, rubbing his thumb over his wedding ring. “I said he didn’t have to, and he looked at me like I was insane. Said he wasn’t going to spend eight weeks missing me when he could be right there with me.”

“And that surprised you?”

“No,” Harry says softly. “It made me happy. Really happy. And, like. I’m glad that he wants to be there with me.”

Dr. Schnell smiles at him. “I think he wants to be there with you every day, Harry. I’m not married, so pardon my naivety, but isn’t that what marriage is about?”

“Yeah,” Harry whispers. “Yeah, I guess so.”

-

For eight weeks straight, Harry eats, sleeps and breathes the film. 

On certain days, the distraction and exhaustion it brings him is exactly what he needs to cope with his addiction. He can’t stay up all night, tossing and turning, thoughts of heroin stalling his sleep, if he’s so bloody exhausted that he barely manages to get his clothes off before he hits the sheets. It gives him a new focus, something tangible to obsess over. The people he’s surrounded by are new to his life and don’t know how to read him so well. They don’t ask about his addiction because they don’t have a place to or just don’t know. 

Most days, he’s thankful for the new source of productivity and focus in his life; however, some days, the last thing he wants to do is wake up and be on a set for twelve to sixteen hours. He’s used to being able to constantly talk to and be near Louis, too, which _sucks_ , because Harry isn’t selfish enough to ask him to stay in his trailer all day. Louis is his favorite person in the world and also the person he goes to for comfort (and who comes to him when Harry needs comfort and doesn’t even know it or doesn’t want to ask for it). Every single night, though, Harry gets to crawl into bed next to Louis, and there’s no bigger motivation that he could ask for. 

Four weeks into shooting, they get to the scene where Harry’s character is at a bar, getting wasted on whiskey. He was aware of the scene, obviously, but it’s _fake._ It’s _acting_. He wasn’t going to turn down a movie because of a couple scenes where his _character_ is having a drink. Alcohol is in every bloody movie out there; if it was too much for him, too close to reality, how would he ever land another movie again? So, he wasn’t worried about it coming into the set, but once he gets there, once he’s surrounded by walls of expensive-looking liquor bottles and shot glasses, once he’s sat on a bar stool and running his hands over the glossy wood of the bar, it’s all a little too much. It’s. . . there are less things than this that have triggered him, and he _doesn’t_ get mad at himself because that would be unfair and counterproductive. 

Instead, he turns to the director who’s busy talking to the producer and asks, “I’m not actually going to be drinking, right? Like, it’s fake. Right?”

The producer, Scott, laughs. “Why, you lookin’ to take the edge of or something?”

“He’s sober,” Tracy reminds without looking up from her clipboard. She says it so casually, like it’s not a big deal or an inconvenience or _anything_. He’s appreciative of it. “It’s ice tea,” she adds, motioning to the carton of ice tea on the counter by the other actors who are still getting ready. 

A rush of relief runs through him. And yeah, it’s echoed with distant disappointment, but he can’t help that. “Oh,” he says. “Okay, thanks.”

Two achingly long hours later, his lines are done for now because, sadly, his character is not involved in all the bar fights that take place. Normally, he sticks around to watch; walking off and leaving everyone else here feels rude. And he’ll continue to do that for the rest of the production of this film, so long as it doesn’t involve sitting in a place that makes his stomach hurt and his skin flush. 

The first time around, it took Harry a long time to feel comfortable in a place like a bar again. He refuses to be mad at himself for putting him back into that position. Instead, he heads to his trailer, kicks off his shoes, curls up on the couch, and texts Louis, asking him to keep him entertained.

Almost instantly, Louis replies with a, _Wait are you asking for nudes?? Bc i literally can’t tell. Think u need to up your sexting game love. At the shops anyway x_

Harry bites on his lip as he laughs to himself, the sound loud in his empty trailer. _Was not, you perv. Grab me some poutine while you’re out xxxx_

_That joke wasn’t funny the first hundred times,_ Louis texts back with the eye roll emoji. Although messing around with Louis doesn’t fix the faint distress floating around his body, it does help quiet it a bit. Lately, he swears it has been getting easier to push through these periods of anxiety and urges -- and it feels like every time he thinks that he’s hit with a day so rough that it feels like a punishment. So, he tries not to over-generalize like that, because Dr. Schnell is right when he said that Harry views a difficult day as a failed one. 

An hour later, Harry’s texting his mum (something that hasn’t felt completely natural in years) when the director comes to his trailer and knocks on the door. Harry says she can come in, and when she appears with two plates of pizza and that carton of ice tea, he smiles softly. 

“It’s lunch time and people are vultures, so I figured I’d save you a piece,” Tracy says and she hands him a plate. He takes it and thanks her, and she waves him off. “Do you mind if I sit in here with you?”

“Yeah, sure. Go ahead.”

Harry has become friends, or at the very least friendly, with most of the cast and crew, so there’s not much awkward small-talk between the two of them. They just chat like normal, about the movie and the other actors and about Louis, who always seems to slip into conversation somehow. 

When she asks how Louis’ liking Canada, Harry goes on and on until he realizes that he’s probably being a little annoying. “I’m just glad he came,” he settles on. And then when that doesn’t feel like enough, he adds, “Like, I don’t know. He’s always been supportive like that. With everything.”

She glances at him carefully, as if she’s wondering if now is the appropriate time to bring up his addiction. Harry has felt her desire to this entire conversation -- you can just _sense_ it after a while -- and he doesn’t mind if she does, which is why he sort of left it open to her. 

“He sounds like a really great guy,” Tracy says. “My mom, like. . . My dad is an alcoholic, and my mom really loves him, but she can’t deal with that. He’s been sober for years now, and she still can’t handle it all. I don’t blame her, either. It’s hard. So, I’m glad you have someone like Louis.”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding slowly. “It’s not easy being around an addict sometimes.”

She looks momentarily stricken. “That’s not what I meant, I was just saying --”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Harry interrupts. It is. Being an addict isn’t easy, and neither is being in love with one. Harry doesn’t take any offense to that at all. “I know that I’m lucky to have him. That he stayed after everything. I know I’m lucky to have that. There’s nothing wrong in saying it.” She still looks guilty, so he tries to take the attention away from that. “So, your dad. How long has he been sober for?”

“Seven years.”

“That’s a long time.”

“You’re close to that, aren’t you?”

Harry must make a face, because Tracy is cursing under her breath and apologizing, saying that she just can’t seem to say the right things today. He assures her again that it’s fine, that they’re having a normal conversation and he’s okay to talk about this. 

“I haven’t really talked about it with someone who is on the opposite side of this as I am,” he says. “Like, outside of my friends and family, I’ve never had the opportunity to have that. To hear about how being an addict fucks with those around you. I don’t mind talking about it with you,”

She nods and takes a deep breath. Cautiously, she asks, “So it’s -- it’s not almost six years, then? I stalk all of you on the internet, you know. It’s part of my job.”

“It’s seven months now,” he admits, and saying it out loud to someone who isn’t Nick or his therapist hurts far more than he was expecting it to. Another reason why he can’t tell Reese or Louis. “Nobody knows, though. Like, _nobody_. So if you keep that to yourself. . .”

“Of course. No, yeah, I won’t say a word about it to anyone.”

Harry nods. His phone lights up beside him, and he looks down at it to see another text from his mum. He tries to imagine how different his life would be if his mum was the addict and not him. How that has the potential to fuck up somone’s childhood. It’s not like he’s never thought about how his addiction might impact his children. There’s no telling how it might in his specific situation, because there’s no way to know for sure how having kids will affect his sobriety. There’s no way to prepare for it, not really. But maybe talking about this with Tracy could help him figure out what to avoid. 

“Are you close with your father?” he asks, glancing at her again. It takes her a moment to answer. 

“Closer than I ever thought we would be,” she answers honestly. “I wouldn’t say we’re, like, the best of friends, but I don’t mind hearing from him every now and again. We’re still working on it. He never even tried to get clean until after all of his kids were grown up, so. I never really learned how to need him.”

“Do you resent him for that?” He braces himself for the answer. 

“Honestly?”

He nods. 

“Yeah, I do,” she says quietly. “There’s not a day that goes by that I wish he wasn’t an addict. But I’m trying to learn not to blame him, you know? There’s no point in doing that anymore.”

It’s not news to hear that addicts can be shitty parents. _Anybody_ can be a bad parent, and people who have an everyday struggle might be more susceptible to turning into one. He knows that. It still hurts a bit to hear Tracy say that, though. That she blames her father. Harry wouldn’t be able to carry around that kind of guilt sober. 

“Do you think it’s, like, selfish for an addict to have kids knowing that their addiction might hurt them?”

“No,” Tracy says immediately, looking shocked. “No, not at all. I think every person has some, like, issue or insecurity or _something_ that’ll be something their kids will have to deal with. It’s just the way life is. No parent can be perfect.” She smiles at him, and it’s kind. “I think you’d be a great father, Harry, honestly. If that’s what you’re asking.”

“Thanks.” He tries to lighten the mood with a joke. “I’m pretty sure Louis wouldn’t give me a choice, anyway. He wants kids, like, yesterday.” At least, that used to be true. They haven’t talked about it in a while. 

She laughs brightly and pours them more ice tea. A little more content with the idea of a daughter of an addict having faith in him in the back of his head, he clinks his glass with her and takes a drink.

The rest of the four weeks pass by slowly and quickly all at once, and then the movie is wrapped, production is done, and Harry and Louis get to go home. London welcomes them back with open arms, as does the beginning of the ninth month of sobriety coming up soon. 

-

Movie premieres have always been a guilty pleasure of Harry’s. 

For albums, there’s no big celebration like this. When he releases music, he might do something with it for his fans, but there’s no flashing cameras or red carpets, no horrifyingly exciting moment of watching the movie on a big screen, completely put together for the first time. Over and over again, he’s praised for his work, he sees his co-stars beam as they get their own deserved recognition, and most importantly, he gets to see Louis’ pride slathered all over his face. 

He’s always enjoyed these sort of celebrations, and tonight that enjoyment feels different for a reason that he can’t quite explain yet. 

“Harry, pay attention,” someone says, and Harry glances at his assistant of the day, who looks tense and focused. Before, when he was high all of the time, everyone around him was always so nervous when he had to do something public. They thought he was going to fuck something up. Now, they just look ready to go, their doubts in Harry gone. 

“I am,” Harry promises. He tightens his hold on Louis’ waist and pulls him impossibly closer, and Louis flashes him a smile. This morning as they got ready together, there was something between them that just felt so. . . _light_ in a way that has become rare this past year or so. Harry was stoned as all hell, but he didn’t smoke to escape from something, he was simply getting himself prepared. They took ages to get out of bed, giggling together underneath the silk sheets, touching each other as if they hadn’t been touching that same skin for over a decade. 

It felt like a new beginning, even though Harry still has miles to go for that feeling to stick around or be completely true. It’s okay; he’s getting there one day at a time. That’s gotten him back to eleven months clean, and he’s determined to keep it up.

“Okay, so, you’re good to go in five minutes. You’ll do your pictures with Louis, and afterwards you’ll go do a few interviews. I’ll grab you to let you know when everyone is ready for the group picture,” Caitlinn explains, and Harry nods all the while. It’s nothing that he’s not used to. 

As soon as they’re in front of the cameras, Louis turns bashful like normal. He handles all of this well, and he doesn’t hate it, thankfully. His shyness allows Harry to fixate on something beside the cameras and the shouts; now Harry can turn to Louis and squeeze his hand and grin down at him and whisper things to him that make him laugh. He can focus on making Louis more comfortable instead of worrying about how he looks himself. 

When Caitlinn is ushering Harry and Louis off to the interviews, Harry catches himself thinking _this would be so much easier if I was high._ It’s not even true, which is the confusing part. When Harry was high, there was that constant fear in the back of his mind that he was going to be exposed for being a junkie. It’d be the easy thing, giving into the disappointment a thought like that makes him feel toward himself. He reminds himself that the night has barely begun and that he’s sober, which really is the only thing that matters. He’s _sober_ \-- a fucked up thought or two doesn’t change that. Beating himself up for those fucked up thoughts _would_ have the potential to change that. 

“Alright, go ahead, Harry. Louis, hang back with me.”

Harry would say he could come with him, but he already knows that Louis would rather not. He’s not as skilled in giving interviews as Harry is, and since he doesn’t have to, he just doesn’t. So, Harry presses a kiss to his cheek before going to the lady waiting for him with a microphone. 

No matter how many times Harry does this, it has never stopped feeling like he’s walking into a lion’s den. In fact, the nerves surrounding interviews have only grown ever since he came clean about his addiction. What kind of journalist would avoid an opportunity to grab a headline or two by asking about his addiction? The general public will always be more interested in the not-so-glamorous parts of a celebrity’s life, would rather click on a headline about Harry’s struggles over reading about the new movie that he’s in.

They get three questions into the interview when the inevitable question is asked. “Your character Spencer goes through a lot of hard times in the film. Are there any moments in your life that you draw from to help you get into character for scenes like that?” It’s not direct or invasive, and it gives him an out -- one he gladly takes. 

“I don’t know, really. I’m happy to say that I can’t relate to Spencer too much. He, uhh.” Harry laughs. “You’ll know what I mean by the end of the movie. You’re not getting any spoilers from me.”

Gracefully, she steps away from the subject, and Harry inwardly releases a sigh of relief. 

After the pre-premiere events are over, Harry and Louis are led to their seats in the theater. It’s difficult to just sit and relax when he’s about to watch himself on the big screen for two hours, but he’s done it before and he does it again tonight, because he’s proud of himself and proud of this film. Above everything else, though, he’s just happy that he’s here. By the end of the movie, that’s all he’s thinking: _if you would’ve taken the easier route, you’d be somewhere much different than a fancy theater with your husband right now. Take this moment in, allow yourself to really feel it._

Closure. That’s what tonight feels like, why tonight’s premiere feels so different. He received closure tonight. For a movie, sure, but he gets to let go of something. There is no real closure in the world of addiction, but there can be an end to a really, really shitty year, and that’s what he tells himself tonight is, even if it’s maybe not the truth. 

Tonight, he tells himself that it’s okay to let go. He can let go of all of it. Tomorrow will be the start of a new chapter in his life, and if it opens up with an all too familiar headache or bad mood or a craving so intense that he curses the world, then so be it. He’s gone through his fair share of rough chapters before, and all of them, every single one, has come to an end. 

-

“No, no. That’s the wrong note.”

“Well, it doesn’t help that your huge hands are in the way!”

Harry laughs and pinches Louis’ side, which causes Louis to jolt in his lap and jab his elbow behind him. Honestly, Harry doesn’t know how he got roped into teaching Louis to play piano. He’s not the greatest at it himself, can only play a few songs, but he’s definitely better at it than _Louis_ is. Louis’ impatient and distractible and doesn’t think the piano is as cool as the guitar, so he’s not all that invested, either. It’s been a straight hour of them trying to learn some song by _The Fray_ , and Harry would probably be verging on the territory of annoyed by now if it wasn’t for the fact that they’re having a lot of fun, even if Louis’ not learning much. 

“Would you be offended if I said that you aren’t a good listener?” Harry asks with a smile tucked against the back of Louis’ neck. Louis is sat on one of Harry’s knees, and Harry has told him multiple times that he can’t see very well around him. Louis’ response every time is that he learns better this way, like that makes any sense. 

“Yeah, so don’t.”

Harry kisses the spot behind his ear. “Okay. I won’t.”

Shifting so he can see over Louis’ shoulder, he nudges Louis’ wrist over until his fingers are resting on the right keys. He’s about to tell him to try it again when Harry’s phone goes off from where it was tossed on the floor by Louis the last time he checked one of Nick’s texts. It’s a call, though, and normally Harry answers all of his calls. 

“Don’t,” Louis warns with a pout, and Harry kisses the back of his head as an apology. Harry slides out from under him and scoots towards the edge of the bench, leans until he can grab his phone off the floor. When he turns it and sees that it’s Blake calling, he immediately answers, confused. They rarely text, let alone call each other. And it’s almost eleven o’clock at night. 

“Hey, Blake. Everything alright?”

Louis’ fingers are playing random notes. They come to a stop. 

“Yeah. Yeah. Sorry, I know ’s late.”

Immediately, Harry recognizes that tone of voice. He’s heard it come out of other people’s mouths almost as many times as he heard it come out of his own. Her words are slurred and flat. Slow. So, she’s intoxicated, probably high, which is -- Harry has wanted to reach out to her a few times, and he’s always turned to Reese instead because he was terrified of triggering another addict. They’re outside of a meeting and haven’t set those boundaries for each other, so Harry always went to Reese instead. He’s not mad at her for calling, it’s just. . . Well. Harry would like to be high, too, and he’s not, hasn’t been for fourteen months now, and he doesn’t much appreciate getting a call from a friend in the middle of the night whose voice slashes through his good feeling like a knife. 

He’ll feel selfish for ever thinking that in about one minute. 

“No, it’s fine,” he says, because it is, honest. “You don’t sound too hot, though. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Fine, ‘m. . . fine.”

Harry raises his finger to his mouth and bites on his thumb nail. His gut is telling him that he needs to keep her on the phone, and he’s not exactly sure why. “Okay. Is there a reason you called? Need me to come over or something? Because I can. I’m not doing anything.”

“No, no, I just. . . don’t remember. Dunno.”

She doesn’t sound good. At all. Harry doesn’t know if he’s just being paranoid or not, but he does know that he needs to figure it out right fucking now, so he turns to Louis, puts her on speaker phone, and asks, “How many pills did you take, Blake? Do you remember?”

Louis studies him cautiously, and Harry looks back at him with wide eyes. 

It takes Blake almost a full minute to even respond. “No, I don’ -- ‘s not, not too many, not too much.”

Louis frowns, his eyebrows coming together in concern, and Harry’s heart falls to his stomach. He never wanted to be on the other end of this, fuck. _Fuck._ This worry that is pulling at his heart strings and making him sweaty and sick -- Louis has felt this too many times because of him. 

Harry shakily mutes his side of the call. “She sounds bad,” he says, voice a little breathless. “But, like. How -- how bad? I don’t know if I should worry, or if -- ” He cuts himself off. He doesn’t know what to say, much less _do._

Louis thinks about it for a moment. As he does, his hand comes up to rest on Harry’s shoulder, gentle and comforting. At the very least, that’s what Blake needs right now. “Do you know where she lives?” Louis asks, looking apprehensive. 

Harry nods. He’s picked her up before to take her to meetings and vice versa. 

“We can go and check on her,” Louis says, already standing up. Harry gets up just as fast. He follows Louis down the hallway, to the front door. As they slip on their shoes, Louis says that she’s probably fine and just super wasted. 

“Should we be calling the police?” Harry asks as they make their way outside to the car. His heart is hammering inside of his chest and his palms are clammy, and the only thing keeping him together right now is Louis and Blake’s slow words coming over the receiver as she babbles on about something. 

“I don’t know,” Louis admits. “I was never supposed to do that for you unless it was dire, but this -- I don’t know. She’s still talking, and we have Narcan. How far out does she live?”

God, Harry has put his husband in the position of having to make this decision for him before. But he can’t fucking think about that right now. “Fifteen minutes. We should -- Louis, I think we should call the police. If she’s fine and hates me, I don’t care. We’ll probably get there first anyway.”

Louis’ already pulling out his phone, dialing for an ambulance, and Harry goes back to talking to Blake. Harry drives since he knows the way, and Louis keeps his voice low as he talks to the ambulance. It’s the right call. It has to be. They’re in a big city where the police response time is shit, and Blake is sounding sleepier and sleepier the further into her story about her sister’s cooking that she gets. 

They’re three minutes away from her house when the line goes silent, and Harry’s mind blacks out from the implication. “Hey,” he says sternly, hand tight on the wheel. He shouldn’t be driving right now, not with the tears in his eyes and the tightness in his chest. “Blake, keep talking to me. Don’t go to sleep.”

There’s nothing, and Harry risks a terrified glance at Louis. He already has the Narcan box in his hand, ready to go, and that’s -- 

“You’re almost there, eyes on the road,” Louis says as gently as he can, and Harry pries his gaze from Louis to the road. This is fucking insane. This is -- fuck. What the fuck. Blake can’t fucking die tonight, she can’t, this is -- _shit_. Harry’s back to fourteen months sober, and he always tells her how good it feels to get back to recovery whenever he sees her at a meeting, but that clearly wasn’t enough. Clearly, he should’ve tried harder. She’s young, she can’t die tonight, she _can’t._

Since Blake lives with her sister, Harry and Louis avoid the difficulty of getting inside. Harry knocks on the door like a madman for a minute straight until the door is being swung open. 

“Where’s Blake?” Harry asks hurriedly. “Is she here?”

The woman blinks tiredly at them. “She’s in her room. What’s going on?”

“Well, when’s the last time you fucking _checked_ on her?” Harry shouts as he pushes past her and heads down the hallway. He doesn’t know which room is hers or why he suddenly feels so angry at her sister. All he knows is that he’s thankful for Louis’ calm explanation and that they hurry after him, because Harry’s opened three doors and still hasn’t found her room by the time her sister comes rushing past him to open the last door on the right. 

Blake is outstretched in the middle of the floor. She’s pale and still. The only thing that seems to be moving is the timer of the phone call that’s lit up next to her hand. 

“Oh my God, _Blake_ ,” Jenny cries, falling to her side. She’s hysterical, Harry is frozen, and there’s no telling how tonight would have gone if Louis wasn’t there to help. He’s rational and thinking the clearest out of all of them, and he’s more confident in injecting the Narcan into Blake’s thigh than Harry could have ever been. 

Harry stays in the hallway, clutching at the doorway, breathless. He can’t keep up with what’s going on around him, because Jenny is giving her sister mouth-to-mouth and Louis is keeping his eye on the clock on Blake’s phone, says that if it doesn’t work in another minute then he’ll do a second dose. 

“But she’ll be okay, right?” Harry asks, and he’s crying and can’t breathe very well. He has no idea how Louis looks so in control right now. 

“If she’s on opioids, it should work.”

“She _is_ ,” Harry says, frantic. “She’s addicted to opioids, so it should work, right, why isn’t it working yet?”

“It doesn’t always work right away. Can you go outside and keep an eye out for the police?”

Louis’ trying to get rid of him so he can either focus or so Harry doesn’t have to see this. Either way, Harry finds himself going to the front door too fast. It’s just -- this is all too much, and seeing Blake like that when he himself has been in that exact same position, it’s -- he can’t do it. He can’t do it. And Blake better be fucking okay, she better get a second chance, because Harry overdosed _three_ times and he’s still fucking here. If he gets to be here, then so does she. 

Harry’s sitting on the front porch, huddled in on himself with his hands pressed to his head, talking to himself through rushed whispers when the door opens behind him. Harry whips around to see Louis, who gives him a short nod. 

“She’s awake,” Louis whispers, bending down beside Harry. He rubs his hands down his back, slow and gentle. Harry goes to get to his feet, but Louis hushes him and tells him to sit. “Stay here and keep watch, okay? She’s not completely coherent yet, and you don’t have to see this.”

He reaches over to cup Harry’s jaw and wipes away some of his tears. 

“But _you_ have to?” Harry gasps out, hand grasping Louis’ wrist. “This isn’t fair, you’ve seen me like that twice, you’ve -- ”

Louis lightly shushes him again. “I have to get back to her, alright, but you’re okay. I’m okay, too. Just stay here for me. Please.” 

“I will,” Harry promises around a sob, because it’s the least he can do. After all of this -- tonight and the last fifteen years -- the least Harry can do is stay put when he’s told to. He lets out a shaky cry as Louis kisses his forehead and goes back inside. 

The police arrive twenty-seven minutes later, and Harry would be angry if he wasn’t so spent. That entire time, he was crying and somewhat hyperventilating. The only thing he could picture was Louis and Zayn and Nick hovering over his unconscious body like that, and maybe that makes him selfish, but he doesn’t fucking care. 

“She’s conscious now,” Harry tells a paramedic as he gets to his feet so he can lead them inside. He is as prepared as he can be to see Blake in whatever state she’s in, but before he can even enter the room, Louis is right there, ushering him away while whispering to him and keeping his arms tight around him. 

“Is she okay still?” Harry asks, sniffling. He wants to see her, but he’ll trust Louis if he thinks he shouldn’t. Louis guides him to the couch and sits him down, starts running his fingers through his hair as he looks down at him. 

“Yeah, she’ll be okay,” Louis says. It’s good news, so Harry doesn’t know why that makes him hiccup out a sob. Immediately, Louis pulls him towards him, and Harry wraps his arms around his waist and cries into his stomach. 

“Then why can’t I see her?”

“Because she puked everywhere and is trembling pretty badly, okay, and I don’t want you to be anymore scarred by this than you already are.” The honesty in Louis’ voice is comforting; Harry already knows that he can trust Louis more than anybody else in the entire world, and all this does is reaffirm that. Louis won’t treat Harry like a child and lie to him, but he’ll hold him tightly as he tells him the truth. 

A few minutes later, the paramedics take Blake out of the house on a stretcher. She has something over her face, an oxygen mask probably, and her sister is right on their heels. Harry holds his breath as he watches them take her, seeking for some sign of life. He gets it in the form of Blake’s hands shaking by her sides and her slow blinking.

Harry can’t properly think until she’s out of his sight. Once she is, he stands up on weak legs and says, “Can we follow her? To the hospital?”

Louis nods and kisses his cheek. “Yeah, love, ‘course. Come on.”

Since Louis knows the way to the hospital, he drives this time. It’s for the best, probably -- there’s no way Harry could drive safely right now -- although in the passenger seat, he has nothing to distract him. The music is too overwhelming when he tries to turn it on, so he quickly turns it off and takes deep breaths instead. 

So many things go through his mind at once. Blake’s health is the most obvious concern, even with Louis’ assurances that she’ll be okay. Her intent is what is really making Harry worried. Even though the fact that she called Harry in a confused cry for help makes it seem unlikely that she took too many pills in an attempt to take her own life, it’s still possible. Everyone was leaning in that direction with Harry that last time that he overdosed, which was terrifying to hear. 

“I wouldn’t do that,” he snapped from where he sat in the hospital bed, small and frail. “Why would you accuse me of something like that?”

Nick glared at him. Towards the end, everyone was always angry at him, too tired and worried to be sad anymore. Being angry didn’t take a lot of effort. “I have a hard time believing that anyone who puts themselves in the position of danger every single day cares all that much if they die. And your shrink said -- ”

“I don’t give a fuck what my shrink said,” Harry interrupted, because apparently he undermined therapy back then, too. He always saw it as a chance to argue. 

Harry doesn’t know how Blake’s doing mentally; he’ll have to ask her if she wakes up. _When_ she wakes up, because she’s going to. She has to.

Above everything, though, Harry’s sitting in the passenger seat taking note of everything that feels wrong with him right now. He’s shaky and exhausted but still filled with too much adrenaline, his skin is clammy and hot, there are cramps in his stomach, his head is too light yet too full -- all in all, he feels like crap. Physically _and_ emotionally. Emotionally, he feels raw and terrified and hopeless. Guilty. _Exposed_. He definitely feels exposed, like someone ripped down the walls that surrounded the memories he tried to forget and said _look what you put them all through. Look what you put_ yourself _through._ After tonight, he won’t ever get the fabricated images out of his head of himself looking like Blake did, half-dead on a chair, in the garden, in the studio. . .

Punished. He feels punished, too. After everything he went through to get sober, he threw it all away this past year, and now the universe or whoever the fuck is forcing him to confront the reality he could’ve easily slid back into. 

There’s no point in pretending like it was easy to get sober the second time, because he did it by _himself._ He pushed away Louis and his sponsor, filled those gaps of human intimacy with his therapist and his peers at meetings, and forced himself to get through it. There are days where everything feels like it’s about to slip through his fingertips, and it just _might_. That’s not an irrational fear to have. Because yeah, Harry’s sober. He got here again, is back to collecting the days like tokens. Some days, he can truly convince himself that he’s better. But how can he be better if he’s still hiding from Louis, still hiding from Reese, and living with the fear that Nick will out his relapse to Louis? Those are all problems that he needs to address, and again, he’s _actively_ avoiding all of it.

He’s setting himself up for failure. And if he fails, if he well and truly fails at his second opportunity at sobriety and is the next one to end up in the back of an ambulance, Louis will be back to feeling everything Harry is now. Worse, though, he’ll be blindsided, because he still thinks Harry is still years and years sober from heroin, and he’s not. Right now, he’s too tired to be ashamed of that; all he’s ashamed of right now is that he’s lying to his husband and has spent so long being okay with it. If he can lie to himself by saying that it’s okay to lie to Louis, then he’s allowing himself to be better at lying about other things in the future. Allowing that guilt to lessen over time and disappear, and along with it, his motivation to be a better husband. 

Your friend almost dying shouldn’t be the epiphany you need to get your shit together, but at this point, Harry can’t turn down the opportunity. 

“Louis,” Harry says, and the blood is still rushing in his ears so loudly that he can’t hear his voice completely. It sounds distant and broken up, like he’s on the phone with someone with bad reception. 

Louis’ voice sounds much clearer. “Yeah, babe?”

Harry can’t respond at first, overwhelmed by the storm of thoughts raging in his mind, but the one that screams _if you do this, it’ll be so much harder to get your hands on it again_ is the final push he needs. “I need to talk to you about something tonight,” he says, glancing out the window. Everything’s moving so fast that it almost seems still, somehow. “And, like. You can’t -- you can’t let me get away with making you drop it. We need to talk about it.”

It would be fair for Louis to demand to know what this is about right now, or at the very least ask to know what it’s about. Harry is familiar enough with Louis’ strong, undeserved patience to know that he won’t demand anything from him, although he is expecting a quiet question of _are you sober?_ That doesn’t come, either. 

All Louis says is, “Okay. We can talk when we get home. About anything.”

Maybe Louis already knows that Harry relapsed and just didn’t say anything about it. That doesn’t make sense, but it makes more sense than Louis being so understanding. Louis went from leading a quiet life in Doncaster to being in the thick of a celebrity lifestyle with a boyfriend choking on heroin every day, and he continued to live this life because he thought Harry was worth it all. That itself makes Harry want to keep working with Dr. Schnell on how to be kinder to himself. If Louis, a man who will bitch about the sun up until the very minute he’s not hot anymore and gives up on a new TV show after ten minutes and chooses to suck at piano because he doesn’t have the attention-span to learn -- if someone like that can learn to be patient and gentle and in love with a person like Harry, well. Maybe Harry needs to give himself a little more credit. 

“You okay?” Louis asks. His hand is tight on Harry’s thigh, and he doesn’t remember when he put it there. 

“Yeah,” Harry whispers, setting his hand on top of Louis’. “There’s just a lot going on in my head right now. Too much.” None of it is even making sense, honestly. It’s just a blur of regret and guilt and hope and hopelessness. 

None of it has to make sense right now, though. Louis will take it from him later, help him pull it apart and put it back more organized. And then Reese will do the same, if Harry can let her in. Dr. Schnell will take what is left of this all and provide some conclusion to it, look at the mess and make it seem like it all makes perfect sense, and let Harry see how it all makes sense, too. 

“We’ll get through it,” Louis promises. “We’ve gone through worse before.” _It used to be your life up in the air and if we can get through the worst of that, then nothing can be impossible,_ is what he really means. 

It’s not going to be easy, though. At all. Harry sealed off his second relapse when it wasn’t fully healed, and tonight, if he can convince himself to be honest with Louis, he’ll be ripping the scab off and letting the blood get everywhere again. There will be no promise that he can get it closed again, and he just might bleed out this time. 

_It’ll be hard,_ Louis told him once, _but not impossible._ Louis told him that when Harry was fresh out of rehab with zero hope that he’d stay sober and a huge fear that he was going to die. He truly thought that he’d be dead within a year after he got out of rehab. He didn’t know he feared that until he was in Louis’ car, when it felt too late to go back and cry to one of the many therapists in the clinic about it. He thought Louis meant well, although he believed it’d never turn out to be true. And it was the truth, and Harry needs to remind himself of that truth tonight, for his sake and for Blake’s. 

They’ll get through this, the both of them. 

-

Harry stays by Blake’s bedside all night. 

She only wakes a few times and offers nothing more than some coherent groans. Finally, around seven-thirty, she seems more like a functioning human being, alert and talking and sitting up enough to drink water. Harry’s relieved, beyond relieved; so relieved that he doesn’t even care that she gets mad at him for calling the paramedics on her. Not in a way that indicates that she wanted to die, just in a way that clearly represents how humiliated by all of this she is. 

All he says in response to that is, “Yeah, I was pretty mad when I woke up in the hospital and realized there were only two options left for me, too. It seems pretty unfair to know that your two options are life and death, doesn’t it? Most people don’t have to make a decision like that. They don’t get the chance to.”

“You’re not even fucking sober,” she shoots back. Harry’s heart falls to the ground as he whips around to make sure the door is still shut. It is. Last Louis told him, he was going to walk around the hospital for a little bit to stretch his legs out, anyway. 

“I’m fourteen months sober,” he says calmly. “Almost a year and a half now. You’ve been in my shoes before, just like I’ve been in yours. You know how hard it is to claw yourself out once you fall back in. But this is your chance to do just that. All you have to do is choose the option that keeps you alive.”

She stares back at him like Harry’s a cruel monster. Even Jenny, who is sat on the opposite side of him, looks like she thinks Harry’s being a little too harsh. 

“Rehab?” Blake almost spits. “Didn’t you hate it there?”

“Yeah. Very much so. It’s not supposed to be fun, though. It’s supposed to keep you alive for at least another thirty days. That’s what it was for me, anyway.”

Blake rolls her eyes at him and sits further up in bed. Her skin is still pale, but a reddish color is starting to swirl around in her cheeks. “You got put up in the fanciest rehab center with the best doctors and treatments and you _still_ fucked up. Twice. And you’ll probably fuck up again, given the fact that you haven’t told Louis about the second time. So you can’t _sit_ here and make it seem like this decision is _easy,_ okay, because it’s _not_. I’m not going to rehab when all it will do is drain my bank account and keep me sober for thirty fucking days. I’ll relapse as soon as I get out, same as you did.”

“I can pay for it,” he says easily, and she scoffs at him. “No, Blake, seriously. I can pay to send you wherever you think will be best for your recovery. Maybe it was easier for me to get sober because of where I could afford to go, I don’t know. But I can extend that privilege to you, because I really fucking want you to stay alive and I genuinely think you asking for help is the only way that can happen.”

She keeps glaring at him, but there’s no immediate retaliation. He tries to take advantage of it. 

“If you die, I’m going to get stuck talking to Quinton at meetings all the time, so.” He gives her an encouraging smile. “If you like me at all, you won’t let that happen.”

Blake’s face softens. There’s no smile or laugh or any indication that she thought his joke landed well. The glare is gone, though, and now he can see just how scared she is. “I think that’s manipulative or something,” she mumbles, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“Is it?” he asks. “I don’t know. I’ve only ever been on your side of things before. Guess I’m not ready to become a sponsor, then, right?”

She scoffs at him, weaker this time. “Please. Give me a break.”

Harry probably would have murdered anyone who tried to crack jokes around him at this spot in his life, so he doesn’t know why that’s what he falls back on now. It’s all he has, though: lame jokes and personal experience. A _lot_ of personal experience. And from what he can remember, he felt bullied and forced into rehab. Pressured into consenting to being thrown to the wolves. It had to happen, of course, and with how far gone he was, it most likely couldn’t have gone an easier way, but he doesn’t want to do the same thing to Blake. He wants her to know that those wolves aren’t all that scary. 

“You’d really do that?” Jenny asks quietly. She’s hunched in on herself and she stares back at him with suspicion. “You’d pay for her to go to rehab? A good one, I mean?”

He nods immediately. “From what I’ve heard, there are decent ones around London that aren’t that expensive that still get the job done. I went to the most expensive one I could find mostly for privacy reasons, but, like, they did have a lot of activities that other places can’t afford to have. If she wants to go where I went, that’s fine, I’ll pay for it. Anywhere.” He glances at Blake again. “Anywhere you want, I’ll send you there.”

She looks at him tiredly. “Spain.”

He laughs. “After rehab, sure. You can go to Spain.”

It gets quiet, then, now that the ball is officially in Blake’s court. Addiction isn’t a choice, and he really fucking despises people who think it is, but getting help -- there is a little more free will when it comes to that. It _never_ feels like it when you’re stuck in it, but there is.

A few minutes pass before a doctor knocks on the door. Blake and her doctor talk for a little while, and how scared she sounds breaks his heart. She doesn’t believe there is an out for her, but she will find it eventually, and he’ll do anything in her power to guide her towards it. And yeah, maybe he’s not the most qualified person to be giving advice. He can’t deny that. It seems like she’s the only person she has, though. The two people who will be the backbone of her support system are in this room right now, and he’s more than okay with that. 

The doctor tells them that Blake needs to rest, so Harry takes that as his cue to leave. He needs to go home and talk to Louis anyway, while he still has the guts to. Before he goes, he kisses the top of her head and squeezes her hand. 

“I’m gonna go home and tell Louis that I relapsed fourteen months ago,” he tells her. Her eyes widen in surprise, and he gives her a sad smile. “Yeah, I didn’t think I’d ever tell him either. But I have to. We all have to do things that we don’t want to, because in the end, those hard things are usually what is best for us.”

“Well,” she says slowly. “Good luck with that. You’re gonna need it.”

He smiles, for real this time. “Yeah. I am. You, too, alright? Get some sleep.”

When he leaves the room, he finds Louis sitting in a waiting area, messing around on his phone. He looks tired, exhaustion clinging to his posture and his under eyes, and it sends sharp jabs of pain down Harry’s spine as he imagines how much worse he probably looked when it was Harry laid in a hospital bed. Harry wasn’t blind to how much he was hurting Louis when he was actively doing it, but to look back at it now, it’s clear to him that he still didn’t understand the extent of the pain he was putting Louis through. 

This is the fourth time Harry has forced Louis to sit out in a waiting room, and it hurts. 

“Hey,” Louis says as soon as he sees him. He stands up and comes closer, close enough to wrap his arms around Harry and bring him in for a hug. It’s quick, but it’s tight enough for the strength of it to last even once he’s pulled away. “Everything okay?”

“She’s thinking about going to rehab. Seriously thinking about it.”

Louis’ shoulders sag with relief. “That’s good, H. That’s really, really good.”

The desire to ask Louis to stay here for a few more hours hounds Harry. It’d be so easy to avoid the conversation waiting for them at home. Harry spent years dodging serious conversations. It’s time, though. It’s _been_ time. No matter what, eventually you’re going to get sick and tired of running away. The first time was his third overdose, and now it’s Blake’s. Hopefully, one day the road won’t end with such drastic road blocks.

“Are you ready to go home for a bit?” Harry asks cautiously. The words feel suffocating once they’re out, but it doesn’t matter. They’re already up in the air. “I’ll come back tonight to visit her again.”

“Yeah, I’m ready. Are you?”

Harry nods slowly. “Yeah. I think I am.”

-

Louis insists that their conversation can wait until after they have a nice, warm shower. Repeatedly, Harry tells him that it might be better to do it before, but Louis is persistent. 

“You’re a nervous wreck, love,” Louis points out. “Whatever you have to tell me, with how serious you claim it is, don’t you think it’d be better to talk it out when you’re not so wound up?”

The trust Louis proves to have in him again and again is stunning, and honestly maybe a little bit stupid. He must know that this secret Harry has is about his sobriety; if Louis even thought for a minute that their relationship was in jeopardy, he wouldn’t be so quick to let Harry take his time with this. Not only does Louis trust that Harry wouldn’t do anything to directly hurt their marriage, he also loves Harry so much that he values his level of comfort above anything else. Maybe that’s not fair on Louis, but Louis is right: Harry can’t get through a conversation like this when he’s already flinching away from a scolding that might not even come. 

So, after Louis feeds Bongo, they head upstairs to the bathroom that has the nicer shower. Harry’s ashamed and nervous, and Louis is right there to give him every reason not to be. He _must_ have an idea of what Harry is going to tell him, that’s the only logical explanation for how gentle he’s being with him right now. If Louis has a feeling that this is about his sobriety, then he must know that Harry is vulnerable and terrified right now, and coddling him now, reminding him that he loves him no matter what, is going to make consoling Harry later on easier.

As the steam surrounds them, Louis helps him take off his clothes before he tugs him under the warm water. It’s relaxing, although not enough to get Harry to calm down. No, that doesn’t start to happen until Louis wraps his arms around his middle and hooks his chin over Harry’s shoulder. He talks to him in whispers, and he doesn’t mind that Harry doesn't respond all that much. 

“You know how much I love you, right?” Louis whispers to him. “That has never stopped for as long as I’ve known you. I know you might be scared that I’ll leave, but I promise you that I won’t ever do that again.” He leaves little kisses against Harry’s jaw. “I don’t want you to ever be scared to tell me something. It’s me and you, yeah?”

The last time Harry relapsed on heroin, right after he got out of rehab, Louis was pissed at him. Cruel to him, even. Maybe he had every right to be, but it’s looming over Harry’s head now. He can handle a few days of the silent treatment, though. He can. If he has to, he’ll do that for Louis. But Louis has grown as a person right alongside Harry, and Harry knows deep down that this time won’t be anything like the last. 

“Say it,” Louis whispers, his lips bumping against Harry’s jaw. “Please.”

“It’s me and you,” Harry says automatically, because it’s true. It’s him and Louis, and it always will be. They’re together in this. “I know that,” he adds after a moment, although he’s not sure why.

As the hot water starts to run out, they get out of the shower, get dressed, and head to the living room. Harry feels like he’s being led to the slaughter house, and even though he knows that’s dramatic, it seems to be the closest description of how he’s feeling. Terrified and humiliated don’t cut it anymore. 

“Talk to me, baby,” Louis says softly as they sit on the couch together. Louis sits with his legs criss-crossed in front of him, facing Harry, while Harry sits away from him, stiff as a board. The shower helped for the time being, yet now he’s back to being every bit of stressed as he was before. 

Blake almost fucking died tonight, though. She could’ve died. Harry needs to do everything in his power to never come close to reaching a point like that again. The basic step for that is honesty. It shouldn’t be that hard. It’s okay that it is, but Harry reminds himself over and over again that he’ll be okay in the end, on the other side of this conversation. 

It takes him three full minutes to even start talking. Once he does, it’s like he can’t stop. 

“I, um. I’m pretty sure I went to Los Angeles and convinced you to stay there with me with the sole intention of relapsing,” Harry starts. “Like, it’s probably more complex than that, but I -- I’m not surprised that I did. Relapsed. I was setting myself up for failure and that’s exactly what I got.”

Louis doesn’t say anything, and Harry’s thankful. He doesn’t want to face him just yet. 

“Forever ago, I -- that music party that we went to in LA, the one that I was acting super dodgy at, there was -- Aaron. A dealer I knew from before. I tried getting heroin from him then, but he didn’t have any on him, so I -- I just took his number and then,” his words are starting to glue together, so he takes a deep breath. _You’re doing good. It’s okay. You’re okay._ “I saved it even though I shouldn’t have. The guilt from having it in my phone is probably part of the reason why I was such a fucking ass all the goddamn time. But I -- it wasn’t a threat, you know, because we were in London, and it’s -- so I put us back in Los Angeles. I keep telling myself I’m not a fucking liar, but apparently I am.”

He flinches when Louis sets a hand on his forearm. _You’re not a liar,_ it might say, or _you’re not a bad person. It’s okay._ Whatever it’s meant to say, Harry’s ninety-percent sure that he doesn’t deserve to hear it right now. 

“That day I went to talk to Reese at the hotel,” Harry continues, “I went there with the intent to get better. I really did. I was honest with her about everything, _everything,_ and I’m not sure. . . I’m not sure I was ready for it yet, if that even makes sense, because she made me delete Aaron’s number and it sent me into a stupid spiral and I went to his house right after that and -- ” _just say it, just say it, Louis already knows the big picture and he deserves to hear you say it._ “And I shot up. Twice.”

There it is, that big confession. Harry still doesn’t feel any lighter, so he keeps talking. 

“And there was this girl, Aaron’s girlfriend or something, who kept fucking touching me and it made me feel really dirty but it also,” tears crash into him at full force, and no, he can’t cry now. Not now. “It also made me feel safe,” he hiccups out. “And -- and I don’t know, and then -- and then Nick, he was so mad at me, he _is_ so mad at me, because I,” he tosses his hands up in the air and lets out a sob. He still won’t look at Louis; instead, he’s staring straight forward at the wall. “I made him lie to you for me. I wasn’t sick, I wasn’t so emotionally distraught over bettering myself that I puked, I puked because I was fucking going through withdrawals again, and it -- I don’t know. I don’t even know. But I haven’t used since, haven’t used anything, and I -- yeah. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

And once Harry is out of words, he’s met with silence. It’s okay, up until Louis’ hand slides off his arm and a sigh falls from his lips. _It’s going to be okay,_ Harry says, trying to brace himself. _He loves you and he has every right to be mad. Him being mad doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you anymore. Take a deep breath, you fucking idiot._

“That was over a year ago, Harry,” Louis says, voice strained. 

Harry nods and presses his hands to his eyes. “Fourteen months, but yeah. I know. I lied to you for a really fucking long time. It’s awful, and I’m sorry. Really.” He has to look at Louis now, because you don’t apologize without even fucking looking at the person that you let down. And maybe he should’ve just ditched apology etiquette, because seeing how heartbroken Louis looks is something that he could’ve done his whole life without. “I’m sorry,” he cries, his chest tightening. “I’m sorry, Lou, seriously, I’m so sorry.”

Louis looks down at his lap. He doesn’t want to look at Harry right now. “You lied to be for over a year straight, and that’s -- that’s a big issue, okay, but I’m also stuck on the part where you let yourself detox from heroin on your _own_ because you’d rather endure that pain instead of coming to me.”

“I wasn’t alone. You were there for me, even if you didn’t know why.” He thinks that’s what Louis needs to hear, that Harry was suffering on his own. Judging by the heated look he gets, he wasn’t completely right. 

“You would have rather been alone in your agony over letting me be there for you, in the way that you really needed me,” Louis says, words slow like he needs Harry to hear every single one of them. “I wouldn’t have just made you some soup if I knew what was really going on. I would’ve -- I would’ve -- well, I don’t know what you should do in that situation, but I would’ve looked it up and done everything for you. I don’t get why you chose pushing me away. How is that any better than telling me the truth?”

The trust between them is thinning, the insecurity in Louis is blossoming, and Harry doesn’t know how to live with the fact that neither of those have a quick fix. 

“I regret it now,” Harry says. “So much. I don’t. . . I don’t have an excuse, other than maybe I was scared of hurting you. Letting you down again. But I didn’t think it through, and by the time I realized that it was wrong to keep it from you, it felt -- for a long time, I genuinely thought it would be better for you if you didn’t know. And I feel like an idiot for that now. I’m sorry. It’s not,” he sighs and bites on his lip. “It’s not that I thought you couldn’t have taken care of me. You could have made me feel a million times better, and I pushed you away because I -- because I thought I deserved that pain, maybe? Thought I deserved to be alone? I don’t know.”

Louis glances at the ceiling in the way that he does when he’s trying to hold back tears. Immediately, Harry turns towards him and sets his hand on his knee. When the touch isn’t reciprocated, Harry pulls his hand away, feeling dumb, but Louis’ hand darts out to grab his wrist. 

“What’s Nick’s excuse going to be?” Louis asks shakily. His voice is broken, and it’s not going to get any better from here on out. “I’ve heard yours, so what’s Nick’s going to be?” He drops his eyes to meet Harry’s, and they’re full of tears and confusion. 

“He was just trying to be a good friend,” Harry says, knowing that it’s lame. 

“Bullshit,” Louis snaps, his fingers tightening around Harry’s wrist. “I _know_ how deeply he regrets aiding your addiction the first time. He’s cried to me about it _over_ and _over_ and _over_ again. And _we’ve_ become friends, him and me. So why -- I mean, what was he _thinking?_ And he -- he _knows_ how bad withdrawal can get. It can seriously fuck you up. Do you understand how irresponsible of him that was?”

Harry can’t throw Nick under the bus. He can’t. So, carefully, he says, “I’m sure he regrets it, too, Louis. He’s been mad at me ever since.”

“Mad at _you_ for a decision that _he_ made?”

“I didn’t give him a choice, Lou.”

“I know you think that you’re super manipulative or something, Harry, but fucking believe me. He knew he had a choice. He just chose the wrong fucking option.” He shakes his head and glares into the kitchen. His grip on Harry’s wrist almost hurts, but Harry knows that he doesn’t even realize that he’s doing it. 

After a long minute, Louis scoffs and rolls his eyes. “It’s the least of my concerns right now, but you said that girl touched you, did _you_ \-- ?”

“No,” Harry says as fast as humanly possible. “She just rubbed my shoulders. Wasn’t anything like. . . sexual. I just mentioned it because if you still think that’s, like -- if you think that crossed a line, then I understand and I’m sorry for that.”

“Well, were you _high_ when she was doing it?” Louis asks shortly. He clearly doesn’t think this is a big issue; he's just addressing everything Harry said. They need it all out in the open right now.

Harry nods. “Most of the time, yeah.”

“Then she shouldn’t have been touching you at all,” he says with another scoff. “And you were scared, of course you were fucking looking for comfort, you were -- God, I don’t.” He cuts himself off and shakes his head, breathes in deeply. “I’m more concerned about the repeated offense of lying to me. I already bought you your sixth year sobriety chip and you -- Harry, babe, I mean, come _on_.”

Harry can’t bring himself to say that he doesn’t know what the fuck was going through his head again, so he doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing that can justify lying to your partner for fourteen months straight. No amount of fear, assumptions or (misguided) good intentions would ever be enough to make that okay. 

“Were you at least smart about how you used?” Louis asks desperately. “You knew this person, so that’s good, at least, but you said -- wait, did you say you used _twice_ in one night?”

Harry almost can’t bring himself to nod. He does after a moment of hesitation, and Louis curses. 

“You could have _died,_ ” he snaps, fully angry now. “One hit could’ve been enough to take you away from me, but you shot up twice? In a span of -- what?” Harry doesn’t realize he’s actually supposed to answer that until Louis says. “ _Tell me_.”

“Like, a half hour maybe,” Harry says, throat suddenly dry. He wipes his cheeks. “Forty minutes? I don’t -- but I didn’t use nearly as much as I used to, okay? I promise you.”

“You called Nick instead of me.” The tears in his voice are thick, and when Harry pulls his gaze towards him, he finds that Louis’ anger is gone and has been replaced with deep sorrow. His face is red and puffy, tears streaming down his face. “You called Nick instead of _me._ You asked Nick to keep your secret from me instead of asking me to keep your secret from _him._ You’ve spent _fourteen months_ talking about this with Nick, and not me. Your _husband._ ”

Harry can’t take this anymore, so he scoots closer and wraps Louis up in a hug. He fully expects rejection, so he’s shocked when Louis hugs him back with equal strength and cries into his neck. This whole time, Harry was so worried that Louis would be mad at him that he didn’t give any consideration to how Louis would be mad at himself. 

“I went to Nick because I wasn’t scared of disappointing him, Louis,” Harry says, as confidently as he can manage. “I went to Nick because that’s what I did for ten years straight. I remember -- I remember thinking about how you were at the house, waiting for me to come back home, thinking I would be better, and I couldn’t -- I didn’t want to crush you like that. It was for stupid reasons, okay, not because I don’t trust you or I trust him better or -- or any of that bullshit you’re thinking right now.”

“You shouldn’t have been scared to _talk_ to me,” Louis cries out. “I thought we had moved past that.”

“I know, I know.” Harry rubs his hand down Louis’ back, trying to find the words. “I think I went to him because I wasn’t ready to face it, you know? Because I wouldn’t have to look Nick in the eye every day. That’s a problem for me, I think, confronting things and, like, properly dealing with them. And for some reason I valued my discomfort over us, and I don’t know why, I really don’t, but I -- I can promise you that I won’t ever do it again, and that I regret it, and that I’m so, so sorry.”

“I’ve been bad about handling these situations before, I know that. But I really, really thought we had reached a place where you and I were on the same page. No yelling or blaming. What we’re doing right now. What’s so scary about this, Harry? Aren’t we just talking? I thought I was better at empathizing with you.”

And, well. Now is the time to let the other shoe drop. 

“I didn’t tell Reese either, baby,” Harry whispers. “And she’s trained for this, right? So -- so it wasn’t me being scared that you wouldn’t do the right things, it was me being scared that you’d make _me_ do the right things. I just wanted to forget about it, I think.”

“Please tell me you at least told your therapist.”

Louis sounds defeated now, and Harry’s relieved to finally be able to give him an answer that he wants to hear. 

“I did. I swear to you, me and Dr. Schnell have been talking about it every week. Me and my group, too. And everyone told me I should have told you, but I -- I don’t know. I guess I was still trying to pretend like I hadn’t messed up as big as I did.”

“That’s good,” Louis says with a sniffle. “I’m proud of you for telling someone. That’s hard, I know. It would’ve been hard to tell me, too, obviously, just. . .” He pulls back to look Harry in the eye, and it hurts to see how red and wet his skin is. “Why did you tell me tonight? I mean, because of Blake, obviously, but why?”

Harry shrugs stiffly, his arms still tight around Louis’ shoulders. “Because I knew that I couldn’t say I was doing better if I was still lying to you. And if I was still lying to you, that meant I hadn’t dealt with this all the way. If I don’t deal with my problems now, they’re going to come and bite me in the ass later when I hit another rough patch, and I don’t -- I _refuse_ to let myself put you back into that waiting room, forcing you to not know for sure if I’m okay or not. If I had to do tonight over two more times, I would fucking lose it, so I just -- I promise, there won’t be a fourth time for me. I’m not doing that to you again.”

“I want you to talk to Reese about this,” Louis says. “About all of it. Tonight, and what happened fourteen months ago.”

“I will,” Harry says, although it doesn’t sound very believable even to his own ears. Louis gives him a look, and Harry nods firmly. “Tomorrow or something, I will. I have to. I’ll do it.”

Louis leans forward to rest his forehead against Harry’s. “Good. And you have to tell me when you’re going to be back to a year and a half. I’m upset that I couldn’t celebrate a year with you again, because that’s, like, a big fucking deal. So, give me a date, and we can celebrate eighteen months. At least we can do that.” This is winding down, at least for now. Harry tries to take a few steadying breaths. 

“I will. Promise.”

“I need to think about things,” Louis says, and he closes his eyes. “Just to, like. Process this all. Make sure we’ve talked about everything. Is that okay, me taking some alone time, or do you need me right now?”

“No, no. It’s okay. Do what you need to do. I think I need to think about things, too.”

“Okay.” Louis leans back and takes a deep breath before wiping both their cheeks. Once the tears are gone from Harry’s, Louis’ hands stay there. “I love you, and I’m proud of you, and I’m glad that you told me. At the end of the day, even if I’m mad, those things still remain true, okay?”

Harry nods and leans into Louis’ hand. “Okay. Okay. I love you, too.”

Louis presses a firm kiss to Harry’s forehead, and then he stands up, squeezes Harry’s hand, and leaves the room. It hurts, a bit, to leave this unfinished, but there’s no way to address all of the pain Harry caused all in one conversation. They _both_ need to think it over and then come _together_ to make a plan on how to reverse the damage. 

_Me and you._ Louis promised him that, and Harry believes it. Through everything, that has and will continue to remain true. _Me and you._

-

To calm down, he goes outside and sits on the back porch. It furthers the divide between him and Louis, but Louis is the one who asked for some space and it’s the least Harry can do right now. There are several things that Harry needs to do right now, anyway. 

The first thing on his to-list: delete Aaron’s number, for good this time. There’s no logical reason for why he should keep it, and he knows that, yet the prospect of cutting off a tie like that is painful. He wishes it didn’t have to be the first order of business, but the way his mind is spinning right now, aching for heroin, begging him to continue the cycle -- all of it tells him that he needs to do this right now. It doesn’t matter that he can just do it tomorrow, or not at all because he’s not in California right now. It doesn’t matter that he knows where Aaron lives now. There’s not a single excuse that is good enough to keep Aaron’s phone number in his phone or minimize the problem of it being there. 

To avoid the mistake of last time, Harry doesn’t let himself look at the number. Memorizing it again will do him no good. It’s impossible to wipe the slate clean at this point, though he can tidy it up a bit, and that starts with taking the bulk of the trash out at this very moment. 

When he deletes the number, grief and regret immediately set in. He should’ve waited to do this with Louis beside him. That would have meant waiting, though, and he couldn’t have put it off any longer. It wouldn’t have been right. 

It takes ten minutes for the flailing grief and regret to tire themselves out, and once they do, he’s hunched in on himself, his arms around his stomach and his shoulders pinched inward. A headache has formed around his eyes from crying so much, and that will eventually pass, too. All of this will. 

At least now he has something to be proud of himself for. Telling Louis had to be done, and he won’t give himself any credit for finally coming clean, but deleting Aaron’s number and _not_ having a meltdown anywhere near the extent of the last one is a massive accomplishment. It’s important to take the time to note that, because if he doesn’t, he’ll fall into the idea that he doesn’t do anything right and that he’ll never find his way out of this vicious loop.

Even though it feels a little pointless and stupid, he forces himself to go over the basics like Dr. Schnell does with him sometimes: he was able to talk to Louis tonight and see the worry and love in his eyes because he was able to see straight since he wasn’t high. He got to come home and pet Bongo because he’s alive, because he puts effort into staying that way every single day. He can be here, sitting outside in the backyard, because he’s not in the back of an ambulance or in a hospital, because he didn’t do anything to put himself there. He has friends who care about him, a family that loves him, and resources that are available to him at all hours of the day. And most importantly, even though he’s not doing well, he won’t go out and find more heroin because that is a bad decision that will lead him to bad consequences. 

It’s the type of thing that he’d write down in his journal and never say out loud; regardless, sometimes he needs to remind himself of it all. It’s what he should’ve been doing more often throughout the awfully long period of struggle that he had which is hopefully coming to an end tonight. He thought that the night of the movie premiere was the closure he needed, but that was impractical. It couldn’t have ended then because Louis still didn’t know the truth. Now that he does, now that Reese will know tomorrow. . . maybe he can officially look back at that stretch of his life and know that it’s over. 

He’ll struggle again. Many times. All he can do is hope (and do the things necessary to support that hope) that he’ll be stronger next time. 

Beside him, his phone screen finally turns off. Cutting off one person who has never done him any good shouldn’t hurt so much, not when his contacts list is still filled with people who have always fought for him in some capacity. 

It makes him think of Nick, who is about to get an earful from Louis, about to be blamed for more things regarding _Harry’s_ addiction. Harry never should’ve asked him to lie for him. Yes, Nick chose to lie, but he wouldn’t have had to make that decision if Harry didn’t ask him to. Maybe he deserves a heads up about Louis. 

_Hey,_ he starts out. It feels pointless to do this right now, like nothing he can say will make Nick less mad at him for this. _I told Louis tonight. He’s not very happy with you. I’ll talk to him again about it to try and take the heat off you. None of this is your fault and he’ll realize that. I’m sorry. I’ll call you in the next few days so I can try to make this better. Xxxx. Love you mate. Really._

He doesn’t expect a response right away, though it comes almost immediately. 

_Oh crap better just block his number now then x,_ is the first text. Quickly after it comes, _Kidding. Honest. I can handle Louis. And I know you’re sorry, you don’t have to call to tell me that. Just focus on yourself right now pls so I don’t have to like hide a body next._

It’s probably not the best for their friendship, not talking this through. Most likely, the tension over the past year _will_ be discussed eventually -- either through a mature conversation about it when Harry can bring himself to start one, or through a screaming match that ends just as poorly as the last one did. Harry will worry about that later, because right now, Nick isn’t the only who Harry needs to reach out to. 

For three minutes, he tries to figure out what he could even say to Zayn right now. Zayn isn’t in the loop, hasn’t been at all for the last year and a half, so Harry can’t just call him and unload all of this onto him. It hurts that it doesn’t even feel like Zayn has a right to know, though. Harry holds no guilt for keeping him away from all this. They just aren’t that close anymore, and Dr. Schnell keeps telling him that this stuff happens as people grow up. All Harry hears when he says that is _he grew up and grew out of your childish bullshit._ Is it fair to feel wronged by the distance between them? Probably not. They’re at different stages of their lives, and Zayn shouldn’t have to keep turning around to make sure Harry is on his heels, keeping up. 

They’ll probably grow back together eventually, but Harry doesn’t want to take that bet. He doesn’t want to constantly miss his best friend. He _knows_ that Zayn would be happy to hear from him, glad to talk about anything, so maybe it’s time for Harry to stop being so insecure that Zayn matured past the point of needing Harry. 

The text he sends is short and simple: _Hey mate. Hope you and the ladies are well. Wouldn’t mind seeing your stupid face sometime soon xx._

It sounds stupid once he presses send, but he can’t take it back now and Zayn has heard worse late night (well, early morning) rambles from Harry over the years.

He’s still staring at the sent text when the door slides open behind him. It’s only been twenty minutes since they’ve parted ways, and he’s relieved that Louis didn’t need that much time away from him.

“Brought you a joint,” Louis mumbles as he shuts the door behind him. He hands it to him as he sits down. Their knees bump together as do their hands when he takes it from Louis, and it sends these tiny little shocks done his spine. 

“Thanks,” he says, and he takes a long drag from it, because he really did want one. He would’ve grabbed it before he left, but he wasn’t certain that Louis wasn’t in their bedroom and he wanted to give him the space he asked for. After he takes a hit, he sits there silently, knowing that he should say something but having no idea how to start this conversation back up. 

Like usual, Louis takes the lead. “I’m too tired to talk about this anymore right now, but I’m still a little bit pissed and we’ll most definitely talk about it later. Can we just. . . Can we go to bed? Is that okay with you?”

Harry agrees to that easily. He smokes for a few minutes while Louis stares into the darkness, and once Harry’s done, they get to their feet and head inside. Louis’ hand on his lower back, guiding him, lets Harry know that things will settle down eventually. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, things will start looking up. 

-

By the time Louis rolls out of bed, he’s only managed to get five or six hours of fitful sleep while Harry only fell asleep for three hours. Both of them have a lot of things to think about, so it was hard to simply go to sleep like their minds weren’t running wild. 

Even though he didn’t get a lot of sleep, Harry wouldn’t say it was a waste of time. He got a lot of thinking done with Louis’ arm slung loosely around his middle and Bongo cuddled against his stomach. And in that thinking, he’s decided that he won’t be going out anywhere unnecessary anytime soon. It’s not like how he used to think; he’s not sitting here and thinking that he has to lock himself indoors, it’s just. . . Logically, he knows he can’t be scared forever or avoid the real world for eternity, but there’s nothing wrong with recognizing when he needs to take a step back during the times where he can’t say no to his temptations. 

He thought of different ways the conversation he’ll have today with Reese might play out. She could be mad at him or disappointed for him. She could be kind and understanding or irritated and condescending. He thought of how he might say it, how he should alter it based on how it went with Louis. Even though he knew any plan of attack will go out the window as soon as he gets on the phone with her, he thought it over anyway. 

Mostly, as Louis tossed and turned behind him, restless, Harry just thought of how lucky he was. He fucked up, yeah, and it was bad and it could’ve cost him everything, but it didn’t. It _didn’t_. He didn’t let himself take it too far this time. This time, he didn’t drive Louis out of his life, didn’t back himself into a corner, didn’t dig himself into a hole so deep that he couldn’t easily crawl back out. The whole time Louis moved around behind him, Harry couldn’t help but remember the nights where Louis wasn’t there. Those lonely, painful nights. Last night was hard, but it wasn’t anywhere near how difficult the nights spent without Louis were, and that has to mean something. 

-

Harry calls Reese at 11:47 in the morning, and it’s mostly because Louis has already asked him to three times now. 

When he tells her what happened, both the Blake thing and the relapse thing, it’s through quiet, carefully chosen words, frequent sighs, and a lot of, “And, like, I don’t know really, but.” It’s not as emotionally charged as his conversation with Louis, fortunately. Yeah, he let Reese down, too, but she’s more worried about how he let _himself_ down. And how she let him down, apparently. Because she regrets pushing him to delete the number so harshly and feels like this is partly her fault, and Harry doesn’t necessarily agree or disagree with that. He does, however, immediately have an answer when she asks him if he wants a new sponsor. 

“What? No,” he says with a frown. He’s at the island in the kitchen, sitting in the stool that he sent crashing down when he was drunk that one night. There’s a scuff mark on the edge of it, the wood chipped from the fall. Louis is outside keeping himself busy and talking to someone on the phone; Harry can see him from the kitchen window, and he doesn’t look angry, so he hopes that means he’s not calling Nick right now. And if he is, that he’s being kind. Bongo is stretched out on the countertop in front of him, and Harry keeps running his finger down his paws as a way to distract himself. 

“You should at least think about it,” Reese says, and that’s -- _what?_

“I don’t understand why I would need or want a new sponsor,” Harry says, confused, because he genuinely doesn’t see a reason why he should consider that. He likes Reese, he gets on with her, and most of the time she’s helpful. No, she can’t fix all of his problems, but _nobody_ can do that. 

She sighs quietly. “You’re supposed to trust your sponsor, Harry.”

“I do trust you.”

“Trust them enough to go to them when you need help,” she continues. “Look, I’m not -- I’m not saying I want to stop this arrangement, but if you keep hiding these sort of things from me, I can’t help you. And it’s my _job_ to help you, so. I want to make sure you have the best possible sponsor for you, and if that’s not me, I understand and there are no hard feelings.”

Bongo kicks at his hand when he touches his paw, so Harry moves his hand to rest on his stomach. It’s stupid, the way this cat makes Harry so goddamn happy by doing absolutely nothing.

“I didn’t even tell Louis. My _husband,_ who I trust very, very much. More than anybody else in the world. So it wasn’t an issue of not trusting you enough to tell you, or, like, me thinking that you wouldn’t be able to help. I just. . . didn’t want to.”

“Okay,” she says, and she doesn’t sound too happy. “How are things between you and Louis, then? We both know the two of you being in a bad spot puts a lot of stress on your recovery.”

So, Harry tells her that he’s pretty sure Louis will forgive him for this, even though he’s not so sure he deserves it. There’s a lot of talking to be done between the two of them, but Harry is confident that talking will happen and it’ll help smooth this over. The trust he was scared of Louis losing in him is bound to happen, and Harry has to live with that. While he accepts it, he needs to also actively work to get that trust back, which he will. He promises Reese that he will. Of course he will; that’s his fucking husband, his beautiful, loving, supportive husband who deserves nothing but the truth and shouldn’t have to doubt his partner. Harry will do everything in his power to give him that. 

He glances out the window at Louis, who’s messing with the blankets on the porch swing with the phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear. “I know I can fix it this time,” Harry says, voice low like he doesn’t want Louis to hear him. “I’m just worried that if I do this again, it’ll be the final straw. It’s hard, like. Knowing that I feel this way now and that I could still turn around and put us through the same exact thing in a few weeks from now. Months, years, whatever it may be. Louis loves me, yeah, but he’s -- tired. I think he’s getting tired.”

“He’s been tired before, Harry, and he hasn’t left you again. You’ve proved to be someone to stick around for. As long as you don’t give up like you did during the time that he left you, then you won’t have to worry about that. Think of everything that he’s stayed through.”

It’s all that Harry _can_ think about. 

Three overdoses, two relapses, a decade of stress and bad days, a life void of privacy, screaming matches and depressive episodes and cancelled plans. Tours that he didn’t want to be at, countries that he didn’t want to go to, movie sets that he had no real reason to be on. Harry’s celebrity lifestyle _and_ his addiction have all but consumed Louis’ life, and that’s something that Harry can’t understand. Louis has silently told Harry every day that he was worth it by staying, but that’s mad. On a good day, Harry knows that he’s a good man, knows that nobody can make Louis laugh louder or smile wider than him. But even on the good days, he’s aware of the fact that Louis’ life would be so much easier without him. It _was_ simpler without Harry when he left -- Louis has _told_ him that before. 

It’s just -- Harry has sacrificed a lot, and he never wanted to make Louis sacrifice all the same things. He had no idea that the life he was building before Louis came into the picture would complicate their relationship this much. He thought he was building an empire, and maybe he was, but he would’ve settled for something less glamorous and king-like if he knew how hard the mighty fall and how fast their loved ones fall with them. 

“What are you thinking about?” Reese asks. “Gotta keep me in the loop here.”

Slowly, he says, “Louis has stayed with me at times where I didn’t deserve him to. And that’s fine, I guess, the past is in the past, but it’s -- it’s mad, is all, that someone with my kind of life can still find a person like him. And, like. Blake, she’s in a hospital right now with nobody but her sister. If all I had was Gemma in my corner, no offense to her, I’d, like,” he laughs. “I don’t even want to think about that. It’s just hard to see someone so young like her not get the same chances that I got when I was objectively a worse person than she is now.”

“Blake has to figure this out for herself,” Reese says sternly, like she’s already seeing where this is going. “If you take her addiction on as your responsibility, you’re going to end up right back where you started.”

That’s not fair. “She needs help. I could help her.”

“Louis tried to shoulder your addiction on his own, and look what happened to the two of you. Can you imagine how much worse it would’ve been if he was an addict, too? It’d be a race to see whose house burned down quicker. And newsflash, Harry, she’s younger than you and doesn’t have as much to lose. You can help Blake, of course you can, but from a distance. Your loyalty needs to be with Louis right now, and that can’t happen if you end up chasing around a twenty-five-year-old addict who is only just starting to take her recovery seriously.”

“Isn’t that what you do for me, though? And you’re an addict, too.”

“I don’t get triggered by talking through this stuff. I have experience in doing this, too, and I wouldn’t take on a case that I knew I couldn’t handle. I’m telling you now: you can’t handle Blake on your own. She’s not your responsibility.”

Harry stays silent. He doesn’t know what to say to that. He wants to help Blake -- _and_ he already offered to. No, Harry doesn’t have all the right answers, but he could help. He _could_. 

“You have told me in the past that you haven’t made close friends with anyone in NA because it’s not good for you to compare your recovery to someone else’s outside of meetings, right? Haven’t you told me that before?”

He frowns. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Last night was hard for you. You were in Louis’ shoes for one night, and you couldn’t take that. Of _course_ you couldn’t; I wouldn’t have expected you to. But that was the reality of addiction, Harry. You can’t try to save everyone around you when you haven’t even worked through your own recovery yet.” 

“I already offered to pay for her stint in rehab,” he whispers, because she’s right. Harry can’t handle someone else’s problems when he’s still struggling with his own. His relationship needs working on, so does he, and all of his friendships do as well. He doesn’t have any room to take care of Blake. It’d be in _both_ of their best interest if he didn’t try to play her hero. 

“And that was very kind of you, and you still can. You can be her friend, I’m not saying otherwise. I’m saying that you need to create boundaries and that you _cannot_ be her only resource.”

He huffs out a small breath and leans down to rest his head on the countertop. This conversation could have gone a lot worse, although that doesn’t mean it hasn’t been painless. No part of recovery isn’t painful, actually; this pain is just better than the alternative. “How did we go from talking about fixing things with Louis to talking about Blake?”

She lets out a little laugh. “It’s all connected, Harry. All of it. It’s why we need to address our struggles as soon as they form -- you know, nip them at the bud and all that. I think you understand that now. Problems grow when you ignore them. They _thrive_ when you ignore them.”

“I’ll do better,” Harry says, nodding to himself. “I will. I’ll start, like, writing down what I need to work on. Maybe have Louis help me hold myself accountable when he’s ready to deal with this all again. I can do that.”

“Of course you can. You _can_ do this, you know.”

The back door opens, and Harry sits up to see Louis walk in. He nods at Harry as he heads to the sink, because he’s somehow got dirt all over his hands. Bongo stands and stretches, meows at Louis loudly, and Louis hushes him with a smile. 

“Yeah, I can,” Harry says, nodding again. His eyes don’t leave Louis. “I know I can.”

-

The first time he was told that he should make amends, he thought it was a load of bullshit. Eventually, he found his way into on his own, figured out how it might actually be useful, to him and those that he has hurt. It’s a way to divide yourself from your mistakes, from your addiction, and that’s about all Harry has ever wanted. It helped when he actually got around to doing it the first time, so two weeks after Harry comes clean to Louis, Dr. Schnell suggests that he do it again as a way to launch the work he has to do in his life and relationships. 

It seems like a small first step, although it was extremely hard for him to do the first time around. The burden of his disease was much stronger back then, though. He had deeply and irreversibly hurt so many people around him; that’s not the truth anymore. He hurt people, yes, although most of the things he has to apologize for now are mistakes that he can come back from. 

The last time, he forced himself to make his amends with those he needed it most face-to-face. Louis, Zayn, Nick, his family -- those had to be done while he was sat in front of them, bleeding his soul dry for them all to see. He wrote letters to or called the rest, and he plans on taking a similar plan of attack; excluding the way he apologized to his family the first time, because he won’t ever make himself go through that again unless he severely screws up. 

Writing down the apologies is always easy, because he knows exactly what he has to apologize for. It’s the talking that comes afterwards that is hard. This is about him just as it is about the ones who he has to apologize for, though, so he forces himself to do it. 

Ironically, the first letter he writes is to Dr. Schnell. He does it as soon as he gets home from the therapy appointment that he suggests that he does this. It might be stupid, but this is meant to get the slate as clean as possible, so he’s not going to leave anyone out. 

_So I hope I’m not the only client of yours to ever do this, or else this will be really embarrassing and you’ll probably think I’m like really pompous or something,_ is how he starts out the letter. He’s sitting in the armchair in the living room with Bongo at his feet and Louis singing quietly in the kitchen as he unloads the dishwasher. 

_I didn’t take our time together seriously for a long time. Reese told me that therapy didn’t work because I didn’t let it work, which. . . she’s probably right. I don’t know. You know how much rehab screwed with my head and I guess you sounded too much like the center’s doctors for my liking. I regret not seeing you more regularly, for my sake mostly but for also wasting your time. And I’m sorry that I told people that I stopped seeing you because I didn’t think our time together was beneficial or that I liked group better, because that wasn’t the truth obviously. I let my ego get in the way of us having an easier time at solving some of the issues I still have. You’ve also been snapped at a few too many times, so I’m sorry for that too. On behalf of all of us, honestly._

_I’m sorry if I don’t listen very well sometimes, and I’m sorry that I still think I know better on some things. I obviously don’t, which is why I chose to take your advice and start making amends again._

_Thanks,_

_Harry Styles_

At the end of their next appointment, when Harry hands it to Dr. Schnell, he doesn’t at all expect for him to tell Harry to sit back down so they can go through it together. It’s mortifying to hear the words that he wrote said out loud, but Dr. Schnell laughs and smiles at all the right places, and he’s the first person that Harry gets to hear say, “Well, Harry, I forgive you, and I’m proud of you for taking the steps necessary to better yourself. I look forward to seeing you work on these things.”

The next letter he writes is for Reese.

It’s long and it’s messy and probably more for him than it is for her, but he sends it in the mail anyway because she needs an apology. It’s all things she’s heard a million times before, although he does finally apologize for dragging her all the way out to LA. 

_I invited you out with the idea that you would say no so I could turn around and tell everyone that I tried without actually doing anything. I feel like I exploited you a bit, and I’m sorry. Genuinely. I know you said you enjoyed the time you had in California, and I hope that you understand that I value you as a friend and won’t ever take advantage of your dedication to help me like that again._

Blake is the subject of his next letter, though he doesn’t send it to her. She’s in rehab right now, and based on his last visit that he had with her, the last thing she’d want to hear is some more NA bullshit. He writes it for himself, then. He apologizes for not checking in on her more, and for being annoyed that she called that night, and for looking at her as someone who needed to be saved. He also writes that he’ll stop calling her a kid; he never meant to make her feel weak or incapable by saying that. 

After he finishes those three, he has the hard ones left. He starts with Zayn’s.

_You’re going to have to read this and not roll your eyes more than five times. I know you hate how I cling to dumb NA phrases but they’re better than any of the gibberish I could make up myself._

_I never thought that you would leave my side, so when you did, when you created a family that didn’t have a place for me in it anymore, I was hurt. Beyond hurt. And instead of trying to figure out my new place in your life, I pushed you away. I love your wife and your baby, and I love you, and I’m so so happy that you made this life for yourself. And that you had a kid before I did, because now I can go to you for guidance. Louis brought up kids the other day and I automatically thought of you and how I hope that we can bond over that whenever that happens for me and Louis._

_The way I acted at your house that one night after dinner is one of those memories that I look back on and cringe at. It’s humiliating to know that I reverted back to that version of myself, and it had nothing to do with you and all to do with me. Obviously, you did the right thing in not giving me alcohol. I’m sorry I tried to manipulate you into thinking otherwise. I hope that if I ever do that again, you’ll call me out on it the same way that you did that night._

_I’m sorry for blaming you for the distance between you. I’m sorry for thinking poorly of you and assuming that you stopped caring about me, because I know that’s not the truth. Most importantly, though, I’m sorry that I forced you to see me in such horrible states before. When I overdosed and stuff. I saw it happen to my friend, and I couldn’t stomach it, and thinking of you having to makes me sick all over again. And I’m sorry that I made you read this whole thing, so I’ll keep it short and end it here. If there’s anything that I missed, please just call me and tell me. I don’t want you to think that I’m not sorry for something, because I probably am. I’m sorry for everything._

_Miss you,_

_Harry_

When he finishes that one, he’s sniffling with tears in his eyes and hurt in his bones. He signs it sloppily, puts it in an envelope and sets it on the side table. Louis will see it, although Harry is pretty sure that he’s already put the pieces together that Harry’s doing his second round of making amends. Whenever he sees Harry writing, he leaves him be. 

It’s hard to think that Zayn isn’t even the person he hurt the most this past year or so; his mum and Nick and his husband are those people, and he doesn’t even know how to begin apologizing to them. 

Out of everyone, even above Louis, he feels like he let down his mum the most, so a few days after Zayn’s letter is mailed, he finds the courage to write hers. For six minutes, he stares at the blank page, unsure of where to start. There’s nothing that he could say to her that would ever be enough to fix the strain on their relationship. He has to try, though, so he forces himself to stop overthinking and start writing. 

_Mum,_

_I’m so fucking sorry. Really. I am. And if it feels like you’ve heard those words from me too many times by now, I’m sorry for that too. I know I’ve let you down. That I didn’t turn out the way you thought I would. I didn’t turn out the way I thought I would, either._

_When I was a kid, you were my best friend. I loved you more than anything or anyone, and I didn’t think that would ever change until it did. Until everything changed._

_I remember the first time you found out I was high. It was the first Christmas I made it back home after blowing up, and you saw it on me right away. I think that was the first time you ever properly yelled at me like that, and I think about it all the time. You never did stop yelling at me after that day. It was deserved, obviously, but I wish it could’ve been different for us. I wish that we could’ve stayed best friends forever, like I had always thought we would._

_Anyway. I’m writing this to apologize, obviously. Not just being self-indulgent again. I’m sorry for telling you that I had trouble with my drinking by yelling it at you. That was wrong, and I’ll do everything in my power to never yell at you like that again. Please believe me. I know that’s hard for you to, but I can’t have you losing confidence in me._

_I’m sorry for yelling at you, and I’m sorry for telling you that I’ve relapsed this way. Last year, I used heroin again. It was a mistake, a terrible one, and it was only the one night, but it still happened. And I’m sorry for not telling you. I’m sorry for thinking that you would just yell at me some more, because I know that you’ve been trying, too. I know that. I also know that you’re going to be mad that I didn’t tell you this over the phone or in person, but I’m not really ready for that just yet. I’ll be home for Christmas, if that’s okay. That gives us a month to think of all the things that we have to say when we see one another._

_The last time I tried to make amends with you, I remember that you were really hurt when I said that it felt like you were prouder of Gemma than me. I’m sorry if you still think about that. You’re not a bad Mum -- that’s not what I meant by saying that. I just feel like a bad son. A bad brother. I hope you know that I’m doing everything in my power to make myself better for you guys._

_You were always my biggest cheerleader when I was a kid. I’ll never forget that._

_With love,_

_Harry_

After he’s put the letter in the envelope, he almost takes it back out. His words keep spinning in his head, and he’s not sure if they formed a good enough apology. There was definitely more self-pity in his mum’s letter than anyone else’s, and he wasn’t trying to do that, he was trying to _apologize_. He can’t bear to re-write it, though, not when he’s crying the hardest that he has for any letter before this one. Of course hers was the hardest; she’s the only one who didn’t completely forgive him for the first time. Zayn, Nick, Louis -- they’ve forgiven, even if they haven’t forgotten. His mum didn’t do either, not completely. 

Since he has no idea what he’d change, anyway, he forces himself to wipe his tears, grab the envelope, and gets up to mail it right then and there. His mum will let him know if he didn’t do a very good job, and if that's the case, then he can try to do a better job next time. 

He writes Nick’s letter four days later, when it’s two in the morning and Harry can’t sleep because he can’t stop thinking of all the ways Nick’s life has been fucked with because of Harry’s. He was in a shit mood all day, and it’s probably not smart to do something so emotionally-charged right now, but that’s exactly what he does. 

The letter ends up being a self-deprecating mess that isn’t helpful for anyone, so he crumples it up, tosses it in the trash, and ends up calling Nick instead. 

“It’s three in the morning, Harry,” Nick answers with a tired sigh, and Harry nods. He knows that. 

“I know. And I’ve spent, like, the last hour trying to write a letter to you to make amends, and it ended up being a disaster, so -- ”

Nick interrupts him. “I don’t need to hear you apologize. I already know what you’re sorry for, H, I don’t need you to bend over backwards to try and earn my forgiveness. You already have it.”

But that’s unacceptable, because in the last hour, Harry has realized just how much he’s taken Nick for granted in the last fifteen years. Every day, he thinks about _Louis,_ how he changed _Louis’_ life, how much he’s put _Louis_ through, and _Nick_ \-- Nick has been his human shield for fifteen years, was the only one Harry completely ignored in rehab, and has had his career tainted because of him. And that’s all the obvious stuff, that’s not paying any attention to how Nick answers his phone calls at all hours of the day, how he’ll follow Harry to whatever country he wants to go to, how he has always been there for Harry when he needed him to be. 

Harry always knew, even with the part he played in his addiction, that Nick was a good friend. He never doubted that. Tonight, though, he realized that it goes beyond that now. Zayn’s his best friend, but Nick is fucking family. It’s become automatic, leaning on Nick, and he needs to be thanked for it every now and then. 

“You would have never left me,” is what Harry settles on saying out loud. “Louis left, Zayn was getting annoyed, my career would have slipped through my fingers and _you_ \-- you never would have left my side. And I don’t know if I ever said thank you for that.”

Nick snorts. “You have. Many times. And I don’t need to hear you kiss my ass either, you know. Unless you need to. For, like, your recovery. If you need to apologize, then go for it, Haz, I’m all ears. I promise that I don’t need to hear it if you don’t need me to, though. I forgive you.”

“Out of guilt?” Harry asks, because that’s the only thing that would make sense. 

“No, mate. I forgive you because I’ve known you longer than just about anyone, and by now I know when you’re sorry. I know how to read you. So does Louis, which is why he forgives things easily as well. I forgive you without having to hear you say the words because I see them in what you do every day. Action over words, yeah? And your actions tell me everything I need to know.”

Harry swallows thickly and rubs at the back of his neck. He’s tired, and all he wants to do is crawl back into bed with Louis. He’s probably awake and waiting for him to come back to bed. He needs to cross Nick off his list tonight, though. He needs to. “I asked you to lie for me. Lying is an action. A shitty one, too.”

“Louis didn’t rip my head off for it, so. No hard feelings.”

“That’s not fair on you,” Harry says, confused how Nick could think that it’s all water under the bridge now. It’s not. 

“I am not the one who was hurt by your lie,” Nick says, as if that’s obvious. “I was mad at you for lying to him, for making me be the one to handle that responsibility on my own. Neither of those things are true anymore.”

Harry’s frown deepens. “I feel like -- ”

“Harry,” Nick interrupts sternly. “You get shit from everyone else in your life, yeah? I just don’t think you need to hear it from me, too. The conversation that we could have about all of this is the conversation you need to be having with Louis. It’ll be the same thing, pretty much. Save your energy for him. For yourself. You know what I mean?”

“Not really,” he admits quietly.

Nick laughs. “Mate, go to bed. If you still need to get your ass kicked in the morning, call me and I’ll rip you a new one, alright? If that’s what you need, I can do that for you. But you don’t need a punishment to know that you did something wrong. You know that you did something wrong, you’re taking the steps to fix it, and that’s all I personally need from you. Not everyone will want it that way, but I do. And I want you to sleep, for real. I can just imagine you sitting at your stupid kitchen table, all pouty in the dark. Go to sleep.”

And, well. Harry’s sitting at the island, not the table, so at least Nick didn’t completely get it right. 

“Okay,” Harry says with a deep breath. “Thanks.”

Nick hangs up on him, and Harry nods to himself in the dark. Okay. That counts. He feels better knowing that Nick feels okay about the situation. Nick’s name is crossed off the list, and the only person left who needs to hear any sort of apology from him is Louis. 

For some reason, Harry has a feeling that it won’t go as easy as Nick’s did. 

-

Last time, he managed to fill six pages with how many things he had to be sorry for when it came to Louis. This time, he can only come up with fourteen things. 

_One: I should never have lied. Two: I should have never directly told someone to lie to you for me. Three: I should have never felt so comfortable keeping a secret like that. Four: I should have never put you in a position to have to doubt if I’m telling the truth or not._

Like last time, Harry reads out his list with Louis sitting in front of him. They chose to do it outside, for some reason, and Harry’s ass is cold from the bench and the sky is threatening to leak snow. There’s no weather designed for this, though, so he supposes this will do. 

_Five: I’m sorry for making you feel like I didn’t want to come to you for help. That’s not true. Six: I’m sorry for allowing myself to hurt on my own. Seven: I’m sorry for ignoring the seriousness of withdrawal symptoms. Eight: I’m so, so, so sorry for snapping at you so many times._

Louis has a pink winter hat pulled on over his ears, and it makes the redness on his cheeks look that much brighter. His arms are resting on his knees, which are pulled to his chest. He looks cold, and so is Harry, so he tries to make it through the list quickly. 

_Nine: I prioritized my own life above yours. Again. I don't know how I keep doing that. Ten: I want you to start writing seriously again, and I hate that I got in the middle of that. Eleven: I regret not telling you sooner that I was scared you’d leave me again. It was a conversation we probably should have had a long time ago. Twelve: I know we’re taking steps back, and I hope that when we finally step forward again, it’ll be for good this time._

Harry’s wearing Louis’ sweater as well as his socks. He would’ve stolen his sweats, too, if it wasn’t for the fact that the only ones Louis had clean were too short on him. To be wrapped in Louis’ clothes comforts him endlessly, especially right now. And now that Harry thinks about it, glancing up to look at Louis briefly -- that pink hat is Harry’s. 

_Thirteen: I promise that I’ll do my very best to stop putting myself in harm’s way. I don’t want to be the reason why you lose your husband, your best friend, your piano teacher. Fourteen: I promise that I will never stop fighting. I made that promise last time we did this, and I know there have been some bumps, but I want you to know that I’ll keep fighting._

“And, um,” he shrugs a bit and keeps staring down at the paper, even though there are no more words written down on it. The edges of the paper are all crinkled from how tightly he’s been holding onto it. “I’m sorry that your apology wasn’t as, like. . . well-written or put together as the other ones. I know it probably sounds like I was reading off, like, a grocery list or something, but I promise that this was about the most important grocery list I’ve ever written.”

Louis laughs, his eyes bright. They aren’t filled with tears or anger or distress; he’s mostly relaxed. Because Harry screwed up, but he didn’t let himself sit in his mess for as long as he could have. Because their relationship needs work, but there’s no doubt about it staying together or not. Because Harry had one page of things to apologize for instead of six. 

“It’s alright, love,” he says, leaning forward to rest his hands on Harry’s knees. They’re facing each other on the bench, and the small distance between them suddenly feels too close. Harry scoots forward and stops when their knees bump together. Louis doesn’t stop there, though. Louis pulls him even closer, and he doesn’t stop until their foreheads are resting together. The list is still in Harry’s hand, still getting crumpled up, so Louis grabs it from him. He folds it up and tucks it into the front pocket of his sweatshirt.

When his hands are back resting against Harry’s knees, he says, “I appreciate that you took the time to write all that out for me. I know it’s not easy to look at all of our mistakes on a piece of paper like that.”

“They’re not our mistakes,” Harry argues. He can’t scoot any closer, so he rests his hands on Louis’ thighs. “They’re mine.” 

“They involve both of us, right? We both need to fix this, and that makes it an ‘us’ thing. We’re a team, I told you that.”

Harry knows that, he does. It’s the truth -- of course it is. If the universe suddenly turned on its head and their roles got reversed, Harry would be telling him the same thing. He hopes, anyway. Maybe it’d take him a while to learn how to approach certain things, just like Louis did. It’d be worth it. He’d fight for Louis just as hard as Louis fights for him. And that’s nice to think, except for the fact that Louis’ never done anything to himself that would take him out of Harry’s life for good, Harry never had to fight for him to live, so that’s -- it doesn’t matter. They’re a team, and that’s all that’s important here. 

“I really am proud of you,” Louis whispers. Instinctively, Harry pulls back, because that’s insane. Harry _just_ listed off all the reasons why he shouldn’t be. Louis doesn’t let him get very far, and with his arms now loosely wrapped around Harry’s neck, Louis smiles at him. “I am, love. So proud. Addiction -- it’s an everyday battle, yeah? So, maybe I need to start telling you how proud of how I am every day, too.”

Harry flushes. “You basically already do.”

“Gonna do it more, then,” Louis says. 

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he says, and he sounds like he really means it, so Harry leaves it alone. There isn’t a reason to go back and forth over something small like that. Well, it’s actually not small, because Harry feels flustered at the idea of the love of his life taking the time to tell him that he’s proud of him every single day, but whatever. There are worse things that he has to face every day. 

Louis kisses Harry’s nose, and Harry’s face scrunches up as a grin breaks over his face. As he lightly presses his fingers into Louis’ thigh, Louis pulls back. His arms stay around Harry’s shoulders. 

“I didn’t stop pursuing my career because of you,” he says, and that has to be a lie, it just has to be. Louis doesn’t lie, though. No, only Harry does that. “I stopped at first because we had _both_ just come back home from a long tour. I needed a minute to recharge, too. And then -- yeah, maybe I wasn’t in a rush to leave your side, but that doesn’t mean you prevented me from songwriting. It means I made a decision to prioritize what’s important to me.”

“ _Songwriting_ is important to you,” Harry says, because he remembers how much of a nervous ball of excitement Louis was when he started to really go for it, and then it just stopped.

Louis gives him an amused look. “Not above you, obviously. Nothing comes before you.”

_Same,_ Harry thinks immediately, and he doesn’t say it out loud right away. He’s not sure if Louis could believe that. Once, Louis told him that it felt like he came third in Harry’s life, under heroin and his career. That was years ago, although that doesn’t necessarily mean Louis stopped feeling like that. Hesitantly, Harry says, “You’re the most important thing in my life, too. Like, above everything. I know it might not feel like that, but -- ”

“It does,” Louis promises, his fingers curling against Harry’s shoulders as he gives him a soft smile. “I promise, love. It does. I know how much I mean to you.”

And that sort of makes Harry want to cry. 

“More than anything,” he whispers before he leans in to kiss Louis. It’s brief, because he pulls back quickly to say, “I mean it, Lou. More than anything.”

“Same,” Louis whispers back. His hand slides over Harry’s shoulders to grip his neck, and Louis brings him closer, kissing him softly. 

-

Blake gets out of rehab in three days, and Harry keeps his opinions to that about himself. He has no idea how she’s actually been doing here these past few weeks. Her doctors do, and she does, too, at least more than he does, so he won’t voice his concerns that she’ll fail. There’s no failing, anyway. Just another stupid fucking opportunity to try again, one that you have to take no matter what. 

He does, however, offer a warning. 

“Times surrounding holidays are way harder than you’d think,” he tells her. They’re sitting in a small sitting area with stiff chairs and outdated magazines on the tables around them. This is the third time he’s visited her during her thirty days; she didn’t go to rehab right away, which Harry was upset about, but he kept his mouth shut aside from a few gentle nudges, remembering what Reese said. In the end, Blake went, and that’s all that matters. 

She gives him this _look_ , a look that he has worn on his own face so many times that he can _feel_ it. The irritation and the pain and the anger all shoved down under a thick layer of exhaustion. It’s nauseating, being so tired that you can’t even properly feel. “I know,” she says. “They’ve told us that a million times.”

Harry takes a deep breath as he goes over his words to her. He wants to be helpful, not a know-it-all. “Okay. As long as you have a head’s up about it. I’ll be back home in Holmes Chapel, but if you --”

“I won’t need you,” she interrupts, too tired for it to be stern. She meant it to be, though. He knows she did. 

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

It takes a total of eleven seconds for her to roll her eyes. 

“I didn’t mean to be a dick, I just won’t need you,” she says sharply. “That’s all I meant, okay.”

He nods again. “Okay. I get it. No hard feelings.”

Again, there’s a small stretch of silence. This one lasts longer. She’s wound up this morning, he can see it in her eyes, can see it even through the exhaustion; that’s okay. It’s better for her to feel like this here than out there. It’s better for her to yell at him than at other patients or the workers. He can take it. 

“It just really fucking sucks, okay,” she starts once she can’t stay silent anymore. There’s tension in her face, her shoulders, her hands -- she needs to let it all out, has to learn how to unclench in a way that doesn’t involve pills. 

She continues after another eye roll. “Everyone here is so narcissistic, I swear. And, like, the doctors -- God, they talk and talk and talk and talk, but they don’t ever really say _anything._ ”

It felt that way for Harry too, until he realized it was because he wasn’t listening. He stays silent; she wants to rant, not get advice. 

“And my sister and dad started fighting last time. Jenny said something insensitive, like, really fucking bitchy, and my dad jumped down her throat, and it was just so _irritating._ Like, shut _up,_ you know? Everything just pisses me off.” She scoffs. “They say that’s normal, I guess.”

He nods with a wince. “It’s, um. Yeah. It’s the chemicals in your head, you know, trying to find balance again. You’re going to be a dick for a while.” He thinks of Louis, remembers how Harry screamed and screamed at him during those few awful days after Harry’s first relapse. You have to try and control it, though. And if you explode, you have to apologize for it, every single time. You just have to. You can’t let you being a dick become normal.”

“I’ll do my very best,” she says dryly. “Scout’s honor.”

He raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. I get it.”

Blake continues ranting for seven whole minutes, and he only interrupts when she wants him to. She’s mad at everything and nothing all at once, something that he completely understands. It’s easy to hate everyone and have no good reasons for it. She’s relieved to know she’ll be home for Christmas, while also pissed that she has to deal with all the festivities. She hasn’t made any friends, although there are people here she hates slightly less than others. 

“And the people they bring in here with all sorts of sob stories,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s stupid. Scaring me into sobriety isn’t going to work.”

“No,” he agrees quietly. “No, it doesn’t exactly work like that, you’re right.”

“I mean, obviously I don’t want to die. That’s why I’m here, right? And I’m not an idiot, I know that pills can cause me to die. I don’t need to hear about someone’s fucking granddaughter who OD’d in high school or whatever these people are on about. 

It’s insensitive, but Blake isn’t in the right mindset to care about anyone else right now. She has to stay focused on herself, anyway. She’s right: you aren’t as strong or as weak as someone else. All you have is you and your story.

“They don’t want your story ending the same way,” Harry says cautiously, because it needs to be said. “In a funeral, I mean. Their job is to prevent that.”

She rolls her eyes. “Everyone’s story ends in a funeral, Harry.”

“Not what I meant and you know it,” he says calmly, and she sighs loudly and sits back against the chair. 

“I know,” she says after a weighted silence, her jaw clenched. “I know.”

Harry leaves ten minutes later after Louis texts him to buy Bongo more food on his way home. Before he leaves, he pulls her into a tight hug, tells her to stay safe, and wishes her a Merry Christmas.

She shoves him a way with a small, tired smile. “You too, dumbass.”

He rolls his eyes at her and leaves. 

-

When Harry was young, he never thought he’d outgrow his hometown. He thought he’d always feel important and safe and wanted there. It was always supposed to be the place he ran to, not ran from. Somewhere along the line, things changed. 

He loves his mum. His sister and step-dad, too. He even loves the neighborhood still, it’s just. . . He stretched the space provided for him too thin, and now he’s always terrified that he’ll accidentally tear it open completely. The balance here is shaky; one wrong statement or look or implication can send his family launching accusations and doubtful looks at him. They don’t mean to, but it happens every single time he comes back. 

He didn’t outgrow Holmes Chapel. It outgrew him. The neighborhood that he grew up in, the picture-perfect place he always perceived it in his mind, didn’t have a place for boys with a developing drug addiction, young men with a serious drug issue, grown adults with no stability in their lives -- and he’s come to learn that the place in his mind doesn’t have a spot for mistakes, either. 

The expectations he set for himself when he still lived here were too high, and coming back is a reminder that he failed his younger-self in every way possible. That kid who would lay in bed and dream about big cities and concerts and freedom -- he’d be horrified by what he’s become. Even now, even as cleaned up as he is. 

And he projects all of that onto his family, he knows he does. He knows that they just want the best for him. They love him and wish he visited more; he knows that, too. They know why he can’t, though. They must. 

Since they didn’t make it back to Holmes Chapel for Christmas last year -- Louis and Harry barely even made it a holiday, honestly, wasn’t worth writing home about -- there’s even more pressure put on Harry this year. That, and the fact that they know Harry relapsed last year. It’s definitely going to get brought up sometime in the six days they’re staying here for, and there’s nothing he can do to prepare himself for it. 

“I swear I can already feel the difference in air,” Louis says. They’re forty minutes away from the house, and Louis has the passenger’s window down, his elbows on the window as he looks outside. Harry wasn’t meant to drive the entire time, but after they stopped halfway for a bathroom and food break, he decided to drive the rest of the way. He likes to drive, and Louis drove him to IOP every day for weeks straight all those years ago, so.

Dr. Schnell would say that’s him holding resentment for himself, harboring guilt that he needs to let go. He’d say he can’t live life like he’s in debt to someone else for things the other person willingly and lovingly chose to do. But Harry’s on holiday and he doesn’t want to particularly think about his therapist, and he forces himself to shove that idea of his head. 

He glances from Louis back to the road. “You say that every time.”

Louis lets out a small laugh. “Do I?”

“Yeah. Like, every time.”

“Well,” Louis says, moving from the window to lean back into his seat again. “It’s true. The air’s, like, lighter here.”

To Harry, it’s the opposite. The atmosphere here is thick and hot, heavy; he knows that Louis is only making note of the lack of air pollution here, though. So, he nods and says, “Yeah, it is. Fresher.”

It’s one of the last conversations they have before they reach the house, the final one being Louis’, “God, I hope Khadija isn’t terrorizing Bongo. We should’ve left him with Nick instead of Zayn.”

Harry snorted at that, because, “Nick talks to Bongo like he’s a dog. I don’t think they’d get on well long-term.”

“It’s only six days,” Louis pointed out, and yeah. Maybe that shouldn’t feel like a lifetime to Harry. It does anyway. 

Since he knows from experience that most of this stress will melt off him as soon as his mind recognizes that he’s not going to be attacked right when he walks in the door, he doesn’t waste any time in walking up to the house when they arrive. It’s his _mother,_ for God’s sake. She’d be crushed to know that he is so worried about seeing her. 

Robin’s the one to answer the door, and Harry doesn’t even have time to study his face before he’s tugged into a hug. A tight hug, one that lasts for ages, and _yeah,_ Harry thinks. He’s welcomed here. As soon as he’s let go, he gets the same response from his mum, except her hug is paired with a well-intentioned _you look so healthy, baby._ Maybe she was worried he’d come home pale, skinny, sickly, melted away back into the arms of his addiction. A part of him wants to be offended, and he shoves that part down because he’s not going to start shit the minute he walks in. And because her hug is really, really warm and comforting. 

It’s when Harry’s hugging Gemma when Harry hears his mum ask Louis, “How are you, love?” And before he can even answer, “How is he, is everything okay?” It’s the same thing every time, his mum looking to Louis for confirmation that Harry’s sober. Not only is it aggravating to be doubted like that, especially when it’s under the guise of concern, it’s even more infuriating that it’s directed at Louis. 

When Harry goes to turn around to tell her to stop, Gemma tightens his arms around him and whispers, “Don’t. She’s just checking in on you. You can’t be mad at us for being concerned.”

It’s calm right now, despite Harry’s irritation, so he tries to keep it that way. The only one who’s uncomfortable is him -- him snapping at Gemma would definitely shift the mood for everyone. To prevent that from happening, he avoids pointing out that no, actually, he can be mad, because the only person in this entire world who has a right to ask him if he’s sober or not without Harry getting upset about it is the same person who actually took care of Harry, through the good _and_ the bad. His family called when he was away and fumbling through a life of addiction, sure, and they texted plenty. It’s just -- if Harry was concerned about someone, really, _really_ concerned, he would go to them, sit them down, comfort them. The last thing he would do is scream at them that they’re killing themselves. That’d be the absolutely last thing he did when nothing else worked, and it has always felt like that was his family’s first method of handling the situation. They weren’t there for him in the way they should’ve been. And maybe they couldn’t have been, since he was travelling so often. Maybe he’s being unfair. All he knows is that it’s always _his_ faults they talk about nowadays, how _he_ could’ve done better, and it’s never about _their_ shortcomings. 

He doesn’t think poorly of his family. He loves them to death, and they love him back equally as much. He’s simply acknowledging the fact that _they’re_ the ones who force the topic of addiction to be a wedge between them. Harry and Louis, Harry and Nick, Harry and Zayn -- they’ve all figured out their own way to find a time and place to talk about his addiction. His mum seems to think that time is whenever she wants to bring it up, and Harry doesn’t have the energy to be the one to fix everything. 

“I’m not,” is all Harry says. 

“Dinner will be done in an hour, loves,” Anne says as she pulls away from Louis. “How about you two go wash up and lie down for a bit, okay? You both look tired.”

“Yeah, we will, thanks, Anne.”

Louis’ hand is steady on his lower back as he leads them to Harry’s childhood room, and as soon as the door is shut behind them, Louis makes a joke, says that his mum is right about Harry needing a shower. In other words, he doesn’t acknowledge how irritating his mum was just then, because he must know that Harry wants to keep the peace and he can’t do that if he’s already venting two seconds in. _He_ understands what Harry needs. 

When dinner comes around, everyone’s happy and chatty and it feels safe to let his guard down. It is; the five of them spend an hour talking about their lives, what they’ve been up to, what they have planned. Robin asks if he’s going to hit the road again soon, and Harry laughs and admits that he hasn’t even started his next album. 

“He doesn’t seem to think anything I write on the piano will be a hit,” Louis muses, and Harry kicks at his leg under the table with a soft smile on his face. 

After dinner, they crowd around the TV and argue about what they should watch. Somehow, it ends up with his mum finding a DVD of Harry’s old tour movie, which is embarrassing and a little stressful. Nobody makes any unnecessary remarks, though, and once he realizes that they aren’t going to pick on him, he finds himself enjoying it a bit. 

The movie is from one of Harry’s earlier tours. He’s energetic as all hell constantly, and Louis sort of just floats around in the back of frames. It wasn’t a serious enough relationship yet for them to be so forward about it, and as Harry catches Louis in the background and notices his things everywhere, he realizes that he’d never be so careless like that with someone else. Harry was always wildly protective over his love life to the point that he chose quitting relationships over dealing with the ins and outs of protecting one. So, maybe it’s more like he was protective over _himself_ rather than his love life. Long-term relationships with guys ran the risk of him getting outed, long-term relationships with girls ran the risk of him getting into trouble somehow -- with Louis, none of that mattered. If it was any other relationship that he was in while being filmed, Harry would’ve cleaned up the evidence of them being there before the cameras rolled, would’ve made sure that person was out of shot. Not to be mean, but to avoid the speculation. 

Louis was his person from day one, though. Or, like, day two, maybe, when they woke up together and Louis was complaining about the mattress hurting his back. Harry had a good feeling about him, and he never wanted to hide that. 

Finding Louis throughout the documentary is much more entertaining than noticing the subtle evidence of his addiction. _That’s Nick’s bag, and it probably has heroin in it_ and _God, look how jittery I was_ and _fuck, that’s like the hundredth time I’ve ran my hands over my arms. I don’t remember doing that._ It’s more mechanical than anything, because Harry is already used to looking at his past through bittersweet lenses. 

When the tour documentary finishes, Anne hops up and says she thinks she’s got a copy of _Dunkirk_ around somewhere. 

“ _Mum,_ ” Harry says with an amused groan. “Aren’t there, like, Christmas movies on that we could watch?”

She sighs and relents, and then _Elf_ is turned on. Louis curls further into his side and whispers, “Sometimes I forget how scrawny you used to be. You spoil me now, with all your stupid exercising.”

Harry snorts. Harry exercised back then, too. It all just wasted away. “You liked me scrawny just fine.”

“Yeah,” Louis says softly. “I did.”

And then Robin lets out a laugh so loud at a movie they’ve all seen countless times that it pulls a surprised laugh out of Louis and Harry, too. 

They open presents on Christmas Eve, because it’s also Louis’ birthday and it’s just what they’ve always done. The very first Christmas that Louis came home with Harry (it was their second one that they were together for, but Louis declined Harry’s invite the first year because he had plans with his family), Anne frowned at how overshadowed Louis’ birthday seemed, so she demanded that they open presents that night. It’s what Louis’ family does for him, too, whenever they go to Doncaster for Christmas. 

Harry and Louis are waiting to exchange presents until they get back to London, so they open their presents from the others as the others open their presents for them. When Harry sees that it’s a book his mum got for him, he’s immediately cautious -- the first time Harry came back sober, she gifted him three self-help books, just like the ones they had at rehab. It turns out to be a normal poetry book, and when he glances up, she’s smiling at him. 

“You mentioned a while ago that you’re sometimes too distracted to sit down and read.” She shrugs. “Thought maybe having shorter content to give a go would help.”

He smiles back at her. “Yeah, it probably will. Thanks.”

The second gift she gives to him is a journal. It’s dark red with gold detailing, and when he opens it, there’s writing on the first page. 

_I noticed that the letter you wrote to me looked like it was ripped out of a journal of some sort. I want you to write happy things in this one. Love, Mum x._

It’s kind and thoughtful. It’s her attempt to protect his peace. A smile doesn’t seem enough, so he gets up to hug her, and she rubs his back and calls him _baby_ and Harry’s never felt closer to her. Her first acknowledgement of that letter is a casual one, and he appreciates it endlessly. 

It’s the following evening when Harry rolls out of bed, leaves a sleeping Louis, and heads outside to smoke. He hasn’t done it yet here, and he’s quite sick of holding back on it. If his mother has problems with him smoking weed, then he has ten years of why she should take it as a win. He expects her to be sleeping, anyway, since it’s nearly midnight. Harry and Louis turned in early, and he expected everyone else to as well. 

When he sees Gemma and his mum sitting at the table, he’s surprised, although maybe he shouldn’t be. It’s Christmas, after all. Most people stay up past their bedtimes. 

“Hey, baby,” Anne says. “Do you want some tea?”

Harry has surprised himself with how well he has coped with not smoking for three days straight -- no, he’s not smoked for three days straight during a stressful time that has the cravings knocking on his door a little bit harder. That deserves to be recognized as a big fucking achievement for him. Normally, it takes him half a day to start twisting in on himself with the need for weed. And he is, but he’s trying to cope with it as responsibly as he can. 

He might have it in him to forget about the weed in his pocket to sit and chat with his mum and sister. However, he’s exhausted and can’t sleep, and it’s literally just weed, so he decides to stick to his original plans. 

“No, thanks. I was going to sit outside for a bit.”

“It’s freezing outside,” Gemma says. “You’re such a weirdo.”

Anne shakes her head. “Oh, it’s not too bad. We could sit with you? If you wanted?”

He bites on his bottom lip before he releases it and shrugs. “You can, if you want. I’m going to be smoking, though, so if the smell, like, bothers you. . .”

Gemma wrinkles her nose, though offers no response as she lifts the mug to her lips. Their mum, on the other hand, makes her disapproval known. 

“I thought sobriety meant that you were sober from everything,” she says, and it’s his general tension from being home mixed with the growing urge to smoke that makes him snap. 

“We have had this conversation before,” he says sharply. “I smoke weed. A lot. And literally all of my doctors support it.” Maybe that’s a bit of a stretch, since he’s been told to slow down before. It doesn’t matter. “It calms me down. It helps with my anxiety. And I’m an adult, so.”

He screamed that at her when she scolded him for his heroin use. He has grown, yet here they are. 

“Okay,” she says. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I was just asking.”

And he feels bad, for a moment, until he forces himself not to. “I’ve been doing this for six years, Mum. I know what works for me and what doesn’t.” He sighs, and hesitates to say, “I -- I know you want the best for me, okay, and I don’t mean to be snarky. Just, like. I know what I’m doing.”

“And yet you relapsed last year. Without telling any of us, might I add.”

Harry continues to stare at his mum until he’s ready to handle the attack from his sister. He didn’t expect it to come from her. Which is stupid, because Gemma is _always_ angry whenever she talks about his addiction. Anne is always confused and worried and maybe slightly insulting, while Gemma is sharp and quick. 

“Gemma,” their mother scolds with a frown. That’s all she says, though, and that’s not nearly enough. 

He glares at his sister. “So, you knew that I relapsed, didn’t bother to call me about it, and then you throw it in my face the second that you can? On Christmas, _might I add._ ”

“You don’t talk to us,” she snaps back. “Even when I’m talking to you, it feels like it’s pointless because we’re not actually _talking._ We’re just, like, saying words to each other that don’t mean anything.”

“And your attempt to solve that is to berate me for making a mistake?”

She stares at him, at a loss for words. He normally doesn’t fight back this hard. 

“We talk,” he continues. “We talk and we also _talk._ It’s not my fault that you consider my addiction to be the only important thing going on in my life.”

Gemma scoffs, her face turning a shade of red that he is slowly turning too. “Don’t turn this around on me. _You_ are the one who messed up _and_ the one who hid it. And I’m bringing it up on Christmas because you do everything in your power to visit only when you have to.”

“I hid it from Louis, not from the two of you,” he says, and they both look confused. “Louis is the _only_ person who has the right to know. For everyone else, you guys find out when _I’m_ ready to tell you, not when you want to hear it. It might seem unfair, fine, I get that. But it’s not the sort of topic I want to discuss with everyone whenever they please. I have to be in the right headspace for it, because at the end of the day, it’s _me_ who will be hurt for opening up too soon.” 

“You’re right, it’s not fair,” Gemma says, shaking her head. “We’re your family.”

He debates if he wants to do this right now, and then he decides that he has to. It’s time. There’s no point in putting off fixing their relationship any longer. Harry needs them to understand what he needs, and he has to ask for it. 

“Did you know the only two people I called in rehab were Louis and Zayn?” he asks, genuinely wondering if they’ve thought about it before. 

Anne doesn’t look happy. “You didn’t even tell us before you went in. We had to find out from the news.”

“Better than turning on the news and finding out I was dead,” Harry says, maybe a little insensitively. Someone should’ve forewarned them. It all happened too fast to think of everything. He lets out a loud huff. “Okay, fine. Maybe that wasn’t very nice. But Louis, Zayn and Nick were focused on keeping me alive and nothing else. I’m sorry. Really.”

“Why’d you only call Louis and Zayn?” his mum asks tiredly. “Why not Nick?”

Gemma scoffs. “Why not _us?_ ”

And maybe Anne has really been trying to better understand him. Maybe that closeness he felt with her last night wasn’t all in his head. Because right now, all of these attacks coming his way from Gemma are ones he thought he’d be catching from his mum. 

“Because I knew they wouldn’t yell at me,” he says honestly. “I knew that, like, no matter how sick I was when I called, or how tired, or how mean, or how defeated I was. . . they wouldn’t yell at me. They wouldn’t be cruel. I almost left rehab early, you know, and I stayed because Louis asked me to. He snapped at me, too, but that was -- he tried speaking my language in a way that you guys don’t seem to know how to do.”

It’s true. It’s _painfully_ true. Maybe it’s a part of growing up or a product of being away half his life, but Louis understands him better than his sister and mother do. Same with Nick. 

“You can’t expect us to understand all of this,” Gemma says, and that’s just bullshit.

“Yeah, I can. It’s been sixteen years. That’s half my life, Gemma. You don’t _try_ to understand. You know, half the time I’m bracing myself for you to say some dumb shit, like that my addiction is a choice or something as equally as hurtful. I constantly sense an attack coming, because, well.” He motions to them. “I get a lot of shit from you two, even if you don’t mean to sometimes.”

“I’ve been trying,” Anne whispers. “Really, I’ve been watching, like, these shows and movies, and I’ve been trying to understand.”

Maybe it’s because of how emotional she sounds that he starts to get emotional himself. 

“I know, I can tell,” he says, his eyes watering. “And I appreciate that, I really do. But what I need from you is to stop feeling like you failed me as a parent, because Mum, that -- that puts so much fucking pressure on me. Yourself, too. You warned me about drugs, you told me to stay away from certain people. You did your part in the beginning. But I needed you after, when I -- when it wasn’t easy to be there for me.”

“You were mean,” Gemma says quietly. “A lot of times, you got mean.”

“Because hearing your loved ones plea to you to stop hurting yourself is really fucking terrifying. I said it wasn’t easy. Do you think I was a good person to Louis all the time? No, absolutely not. Did he ever leave my side? No. No, he didn’t. Not until the end, but even then, he wasn’t really gone.” He swallows past the heat in his throat and crosses his arms over his abdomen. “I felt like you were always gone. I felt like -- like all I was in your eyes was a disappointment. You didn’t ever try to connect to me on any other level, you would always just go straight in for the tough spot. And look, I’m not -- I’ve worked through that. Really, I understand why you couldn’t be there for me during the times in my life that I was high. But I’ve been really fucking confused why I still don’t feel like you’re here for me when I’m sober.” He takes a deep breath before admitting, “It makes me feel like you don’t think I’m a person outside of my addiction, and that’s -- I’m mean when I’m high or struggling not to be, like you said. So I feel like I’m just a bad person in your eyes all of the time.”

“You are a good person, love,” Anne says sternly. “One of the best I know. I’m sorry if I made you feel otherwise.”

It goes silent, then, and now he’s just being stared at while trying not to cry, and that’s. . . He made them understand. Now he needs to figure out how to ask them to do better. 

“I never had to ask Louis for help,” Harry starts slowly, still trying to find the words. “Like, he always sort of just knew what I needed from him? Same with Zayn. And Nick. . . I don’t think I ever had to tell him to change, he just did that himself. So, like. Maybe it’s partly my fault for not establishing boundaries and things. Maybe I need to be more understanding of you, too. So, I guess, like, I’m asking you to stop judging me for things. And stop accusing me of things, because even when you’re not directly asking me if I’m high, you do it all the time.” He glances at his mum. “I’d rather not hear about how healthy I look, because I know that was just your way of reassuring yourself that I looked sober.”

Her posture deflates. “I’m sorry.”

“And Gemma, like.” He shrugs, because right now, he has a lot less sympathy for her. “Maybe, like, don’t be mean to me for no reason. Maybe don’t feel entitled to know things about my life. And you’ve used my addiction as a point in your argument way too many times. If you hold resentment towards me, you need to let me fix it or find a way to let go of it on your end. You hating me for all the years I was a junkie is preventing us from spending time together while I’m sober. And sure, that’s way oversimplifying it, but that’s the only way I know how to explain it.”

He left his room to smoke and instead found what Dr. Schnell will call a turning point and what Louis will say he’s proud of him for. 

“I’m sorry,” Gemma says, a little too sharp to be sincere. He stares at her, and she sighs. “Seriously. I am.”

Relief comes, although it’s not as strong as he thought it would be. Because, as he’s learned time and time again, apologies don’t mean anything if you don’t back it up with actions. For ten years straight, he apologized to Louis nearly every day, yet their relationship was steadily declining. It took a few months of apologizing and actually showing that he was trying to change for their relationship to reach a place so good that they hadn’t ever really got there before. 

Still, Harry can’t be jaded. He’ll accept the apology. And if Gemma proves to be only apologizing for the sake of it, he’ll retract his forgiveness and they’ll start over. 

“Go and do whatever you need to do,” his mum says softly. Despite the tears in her eyes, there’s a faint smile on her face. It doesn’t look genuine, looks a little forced, but again, he’ll take it. “We’ll wait up for you.”

He nods, pride bubbling in his throat. “Okay. I will. Thanks.”

He heads outside, sits on the freezing cold porch step, and pulls out a lighter. 

When Harry comes inside thirty-five minutes later with weightless limbs and a forgivingly fuzzy head, Gemma and Anne are still at the dining room table like they promised, and now Louis accompanies them. Harry didn’t know how his sister and mum would react to him being visibly high and reeking of weed, but Louis’ reaction -- a small, amused eye roll and cautious eyes that come out when Louis _knows_ Harry smoked more than he should’ve -- is one that he’s familiar with. It’s calming, almost. 

He sits down at the table next to Louis, and Gemma and Anne don’t comment. It feels merciful. 

A little awkwardly, the conversation that he walked in on resumes. It’s about Anne’s friend’s trip to the States or something, Harry can’t quite keep up. He becomes even more distracted when his phone vibrates in the pocket of his coat. 

It’s a text from Blake. He’s not too surprised. She texted him early this morning, asking about Reese for some reason. It’s likely she doesn’t get on with her own sponsor for whatever reason, which happens. He gave her the number and hasn’t heard back from her since. Thankfully, he doesn’t find a message that tells him Blake relapsed. Instead, it’s a simple: _happy boxing day you absolute brat x._

As Harry smiles down at the text, his mum asks, “Who are you texting at this hour, love?”

There’s a possible implication to her words that Harry ignores, because she swore not even an hour ago that she’s trying to do better and he doesn’t want to unrightfully villainize her. 

“A friend,” he says, and if they hadn’t just had the discussion he did, he would’ve left it that. Because they had, though, he adds, “Blake. She just got out of rehab, like, a couple days ago.”

“Oh, that’s nice. How is she doing?”

Honestly, Harry has no clue. Only time will tell. “She seems to be doing alright,” he assumes, since that’s what Blake said. “Better than I was doing at first, it seems like.”

He glances at Louis and Louis’ already looking back at him. They were both so scared back then. Terrified. They almost lost each other in more ways than one, and Harry has to take a step back from thinking about that right now. They found their way back to each other, didn’t they? 

Gemma’s the first one to head to bed, and then Anne. Louis doesn’t seem all that tired since he already slept for a few hours, but he allows Harry to coax him back to bed. They get ready for bed together, and while Harry’s brushing his teeth, Louis just watches him because he already did. 

“You know,” Louis says as Harry leans down to spit in the sink. “The next time we’re here, like. We’ll probably have a kid by then.”

Slowly, Harry stands up straight and wipes the toothpaste off his mouth with the back of his hand. “You think?”

“I don’t know,” Louis says with a shrug. “Like -- yeah, I mean. Maybe. It’s not unlikely. Because we’ll probably go back to mine next year, and then the year after that, you know, I know we haven’t put a timeframe on it, but I was hoping that -- ”

Harry shushes him with a kiss. Normally, Louis would shove him off and make a joke about Harry shutting him up with seduction; now, he just pulls him closer and kisses him back. For only a minute, because then he pushes him back and whispers, “You taste like toothpaste.”

Harry snorts and presses a kiss to Louis’ forehead. “Thanks for the update,” he says as he puts his toothbrush away and flicks the light up, leaving Louis in the dark as he makes his way to the bed. 

Since Harry is high and Louis is still sleepy, they don’t mess around and get comfortable quickly. Louis ends up tucked under Harry’s arm, his head on Harry’s chest, and the blankets are tight and warm around them. 

Harry realizes he’s more tired than he thought as he closes his eyes and sleep urges him closer. Before he drifts off, though, he goes over that mantra in his head, just like he tries to do every night. _Today is over. I did my best. Tomorrow, I’ll face new challenges, challenges that I can beat. Today is done, and tomorrow is coming._

-

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!!! i hope you liked it :)
> 
> (if you noticed any timeline errors -- no you didn't, shhh lol)
> 
> come talk to me!  
> twitter: bravestylesao3  
> tumblr: bravestylesao3


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